I'm not some secret Pliny;
I'm all out of metaphor.
All I am is still regretting fiercely;
I could've done more.
And if there's one thing I can't
ever absolve myself of,
it's letting him have you, hurt you,
despite all of my love.
You gave me a sword made of glass,
your love was mine, then dust;
too busy tending pride, I made
my loss entirely just.
So here's to you, blamed thoughtless,
and to me, victimized, raw,
to time and fate's innocence,
'cause, see,
I could've done more.
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