We sowed something wonderful
we made each other faces,
shared private secrets,
and you didn't care that I gave you meaningless nicknames.
But then you up and left.
You left me.
Now you feel guilty for what you've done
and have no hint how to make it right.
Because I'm old enough to know
not to hang onto a man.
I'm too independent for that.
Maybe it's true,
I do wish it was the way it were.
But I'm not going to wait around
and beg for you.
So you feel guilty that you left me
and I'm over here
living my life as if you were never a sentence in my book,
though we both know you were a chapter or two.
Don't go tellin' me you're sorry for what you've done
and guilt is eating you alive
because, my dear, you reap what you sow.