Waiting, on a Sunday afternoon, for what I read between the lines, your lies, feeling, like a hand that lost its ring, so do you laugh or does it cry? Reply? Leaving, on a southern train, only yesterday, you lied, promises of what I seemed to be, only watched the time go by, all of these things you said to me, breathing is the hardest thing to do, with all I've said and all that's dead for you, you lied, good bye.
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