i remember, there's a story of a woman sentenced to death.
she called up her kids and husband,
said i won't come home today,
and i won't come home tomorrow,
o i won't come on saturday,
and i won't get there on christmas,
o i won't come on mother's day.
so they burned all her belongings
to kill loneliness when night falls,
and the room they used to sleep
in stood there blushing from the naked wallls,
and with every dress thrown into fire
he would want her more than he ever did,
and with every ruby lipstick
he felt trapped in his own guilt.
so he wrote an awkward letter
from the botom of his fragile heart:
see, i never thought i loved you,
but the silence tore me apart.
with your death in all it's glory
it's no time for me to live.
i remember there's a story of a man sentenced to grieve...