I read your letter again.
I wish I could have held that pen,
If only because the shaking of your hand
Made the writing hard to understand.
Something about 'anger' and 'grief',
And a 'silent sigh', whatever that means.
But it's not up to me
To tell you when you're happy and when you're not.
Don't even bother telling me the truth.
I only wish I'd left you.
So go on.
Lie to me.
After all, I'm not even here.
So it came to be
You're not responsible for me
Or anything I say,
So don't you go worrying your pretty little brain.
I guess I made the mistake
In trusting you with my heartache.
But at least I realised
With time enough to spare to take it back.
Well, I guess I'm sorry for telling you the truth,
But what was I supposed to do?
Tell you that it's not me,
And it's all you?