I seem to like to dwell on Love,
or some image I make thereof.
On creatures from my distant past,
although most popular's the last-
"I wonder will she write to me"
and
"Happy with him, that just can't be!"
I'll feel all sad and play the blues,
pondering what I did to lose.
Write long letters to she-who's-gone,
sing about her in a song.
This the game my heart repeats,
until a new love does compete.
Though I do still think of old one's,
my firing pins decend on cold guns.
Why I must repeat this game,
is a quest which wracks my brain.
For nothing that I do or say,
will bring to me old loves today.
Maybe I just like to hurt,
crying over some old skirt.
Maybe I am fooling me,
about the way things really be.
But no matter, here I sit,
wishing I were past this shit.
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