I climbed to the top of a hill
today and the wind was ridiculous.
I wanted to scream how much I hated your guts
and let the gale carry it back to you
four or five towns away.

But how could I? I wish nothing on you.
You're a little bit beautiful but far too young
and happy in the arms of another girl
I should have been happy too.
That part wasn't your fault.

I drink tea now. Hot and sweet,
and I could never kiss a non-smoker
because I'm far too set in my ways.
Far too callous with my dwindling days,
I don't particularly want to change either.

Recently, I could go a whole car journey
without putting on my seatbelt.
Because, really, we're all dying anyways
and that time you had told me to wear one,
like you cared if I lived or not.