You left it. I sent it. I want it back. If I had you here I'd clip you wings, snap you up and leave you sprawling on my pen. This plan of mine is "Oh, so very" lame.
And you left: I died. I wept: You cried. You came: I think.
But I never really know. And you left: I died. I wept: You cried. You came: I think.
Now I've served my time. I've watched you climb the wrong incline.
But you never really know.
Accept it. Don't let it fuck you up. This applies equally to you and I: The only thing we've shared is the same sky. These empty metaphors: They're all in vain.
Can't you see the grass is greener where it rains?
