Since it was me who started it,
I must then beg your pardon; it
made sense to let my heartstrings
play the tune of your sweet laughter.
But use my heart as your ink-pot
and I'll cry tears blue like ink blots,
asking "why?", I'd ask you "why?"
each time you say that we should stop.
Words run wet right down the page;
'til ***** and *** taste the same;
'til black and blue blend just one shade.
I thought love was something that lived just next-door-but-one to hate.