Broken glass spread around,
cold skins, frozen fur and puppy eyes,
cages with the name of the pound
written on them, the tags and the ties.
She never lies, she never expresses,
never blesses those who wait
not even when it's too late.

When all we have is what could
have been something great,
you're left with what would
not deserve to be called anything,
you sting and poke.

It's about the time I woke,
the time I sat there silently
wishing you had something to add.
It's leaving,
what we had, what's left or over,
the perfect disease, someone
who had the guts to drive you
mad.