So thoroughly convinced that the product of persistence was a love that I'd been told of when I was just a kid, I was wed to my misery, in the hope that at the ceremony you'd interject, but you never did. Now seven years on, bitter and resentful, I still contemplate what
I did to deserve the glimpses of affection you used to distract me, as you were filing my teeth to the nerve.

I know you were the death of me, but still, in spite of everything, I hope that you are finding sleep while I still lay awake. Although my throat is burning now, it's still so quiet in the house. The emptiness you occupied is more than I can take.

Tell me, are you ashamed? 'Cause I felt alone, and you watched as I decayed, I slipped through your hands as I faded. I've tried to forget, but your love will make a museum of me yet, I hope you know how long I've waited.

Though reservoirs of self-disgust have swollen up inside my lungs, Pulmonary Oedema is no substitute for love that once lay its head upon my chest, a comfort cradled motionless, but I have come undone.
My love is not enough.
I know it's hard to watch your light fade from my eyes, but darling for my sake you've got to let it die. My weathered hands have dug this grave enough, it's time for us to bury our love.

Tell me, are you ashamed? 'Cause I felt alone and you watched as I decayed, I slipped through your hands as I faded. I've tried to forget, but your love will make a museum of me yet, it kills me to say I'm still waiting.