I do not want you to pretend, to imagine or believe that you loved me.
As my mother said to me, is it really that hard to see?
Whatever we had was ripped, torn and battered. The Ashes scattered.
Our friends divided, our lives in tatters. Not that it ever mattered.
As I return to a house, once a home now as quit as a mouse.
On the side your blouse. Left alone is this unloved house.
Like the glass on the floor our lives are shattered. Not that it ever mattered.
Even after it all though, I just want to say. I’m sorry.
But it’s not like it even matters.
22 Febuary 2010
