he calls me love when he's mad

his sweetheart when he's sad

he calls me a wilting flower in the sun

a fragile broken piece of glass when we're done.


He brings me blossoms in the spring

in the fall, always nothing

in the winter he leaves my toes cold

but my heart is always a bit too bold

and in the morning it reaches out

and is left to wander home a different route.

I lay in bed, lost at night

not knowing if his love for me is right

for when the morning comes and all is light

I never miss him, or his plight.