I'm in one of those moods again
  where everything makes me think of when
      you and me used to be the best of friends,
and id give anything to make this reminiscing end.

I could pick up my pen,
   write poems for the best days that we spent,
      or all the awful things that you ever said
         til every last and forever lost hen,
ready to be slaughtered, comes home to their shed.

Yet when that sun rises red
   into the single pair of dead,
      empty eyes, lying in my bed,
         I'll remember that I have nothing left,
            except for the silver stained in dread,
and memories of you, swimming in my head.

All I can do to make this end,
   is try my hardest to pretend
      that I could go my whole life and
         live without feeling the regret
of never loving you again.