I’ve been trying to find the words to say what I need to say, but every time I think I might have found them, I find they metamorphosize to semi-lies the heart cannot infer. For hiding behind the two of us lies the shadow of a third. It’s not you, it’s not me, it’s her.
She is not deserving, she’s as cold as Arctic seas. She has a man she’ll never love as much as you’d love me. But maybe she will leave him and fly just like a bird to my roof, and there she’ll prove I get what I deserve.
You don’t have to forgive me for the hurt that I did cause, but it did not start with me, I just passed it on.
I see a day long years away, your home of warmth and grace. A pretty house with porches wrapped around its lovely face. But the place across the street is shuttered up and does not stir, except a lonely bird up on the roof that cries but is not heard. It’s not you, it’s not me, it’s her.
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