If I'd ask you for a dime, you'd just toss me a nickle. If I'd ask for your advice, all you'd say is, "Life is fickle." You like to keep me wanting more, thirsty while you hold the cup, so when I head for the door, I always leave without enough.
If patience is a virtue, I could be its patron saint. I canvassed my whole life with you before you smeared the paint. When I hear your off-key chorus, it gets hard to keep composure. I know where the door is, but the window is much closer.
I don't want to be leaving, but it's clear I shouldn't stay. It's my fault for believing all the things you had to say. What's the use in grieving? Nothing to lose, anyway.