take me to the place where theres no sadness,
                                             no tears,
                                no pain,
and no about you anymore.

if i died tomorrow,
the many poems stuck in my head would be left unwritten,
and the lyrics hidden in my guitar would remain without a tune.
the "i love you”s i carried to and from school would be covered in regret like thick dust,
almost as heavy as the chains made of “i’m sorry”s concealed in side pockets of my backpack.
the kisses I saved for the right moment would remain in my desk drawer,
melting into a gooey mess of doubt and hesitations.

if i died tomorrow,
i would beg for more time,
and for that I am ashamed.

Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,
So Dusty Springfield asserted from her knees
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

The flow of passion deepens in fits and starts,
And does not walk the tidy path of our pleas.
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,

Till-death-do-we-part tortures spinsters and tarts
The rice a mirage, the wedding march a tease.
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

It ignores the primacy of graphs and charts,
Choosing its own time and moments to seize;
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,

Love at first sight upsets all our apple carts,
Yet we rush headlong to pick it from the trees.
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

One more torch song, then, to rocket up the charts.
One more tear-stained chanteuse to sing the reprise;
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)