I know you don't. Know you can't. I just wanted you to know I did. I do. I always have. I always will.
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Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies: Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.' So should my papers yellow'd with their age Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
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Well I wish I could kill you, savor the sight. Get into my car, drive into the night. Then lie as I scream to the heavens above, That I was the last one you ever loved.
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bitchy