Past thought

Hair's all a mess, and I'm clothed in your sweat.
Your side of the bed's grown cold.
Nicotine's called your name and you've rolled away
and I'm growing cold.
But I don't need the heat, no
I'd rather be free
from these notorious morning monologues
where I play the victim knowingly, yet,
you're the crime I commit.

And on the drive home, my guilt crosses my mind
in the form of a memory...
I'll hold onto it, when I'm feeling alone,
but it's a secret kept in shame.