I saved up my soul for you,
Packaged it in paper notes and bows…
I never got a letter back.
Maybe your feelings are just slow?
All of the promises turned into ifs,
Maybes as sincere as sin.
I remember every flower; every weed you said,
You told her we were just friends. My dandelion dead.
Vows cast in gold, I thought they meant more.
I know now, that they were made of pyrite.