You never chose me, didn’t even try to fight. This love that had set me on fire, for you, was just a match in the night. I fantasize about you dreaming of me still, but that’s just pouring poison in my own glass. Do you still go to market on Saturdays, or take your folks to Sunday mass? I did the hard part; I forgave. So why must my mind always drift back to you? Why can’t I seem to leave you in the "lost loves" mass grave?