It's a sad and sorry sickness
When you turn and walk away
It's a dreary disposition
To prefer the night to day

It's this tainted task of living
That makes you turn your back
And this bleeding, broken vessel
That cries for what you lack

It's a meek misunderstanding
Which casts you from their eye
And an unkind understatement
From which your mind does fly

It's a periwinkle promise
That you won't be undone
And a thoughtless tongue
Which says that we have won

It's the neverending never
From which you shade yourself
And a self-less self-fulfillment
That's hung you on this shelf

It's with a heedless heart
I, to my love, do fly
You're no forgotten friend
Who never told me why.