And that's the tragedy,
Playing the might have beens,
Along with the what could be,
In my mind, all the fantasy,
Everything we might have said, that could'v'e happened in a script
I'll never write.
Were you right to end it all before I got my hands on the copy,
You were right to stop me.
Feverish and drunk, I get lost,
I know the words we might've said, all the lives we might have led,
And it kills me
It kills me up in my head, to replay them like an overture still in review
What am I now I've finally lost you, and admit it
I can't acquit it.
This must do.
All the things I cannot write have to do with you, inside my darker lusts the poetic throes of fantasy,
Are only fantasy,
Without a muse
There's nothing they can come to.