My bed's never so uncomfortable as when you're not in it; where are you tonight? The empty hours creep by and I have to remember that I made you forget. I know there was a reason to begin with, but is this how it should end? But the bottle's been smashed and there's no turning back - tonight may find you anywhere but here with me.
There's a suspicious dampness just beneath my lashes, and I shouldn't confess that they're tears, but denial changes nothing. I know that better than anyone else, my dear. (And that's a cruel mockery of an endearment; I'm alone tonight and will be for years. My bed will be uncomfortable for years.)
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