Where I sit, like a loser.
Sinking into the sweet past,
Cursing, why didn't the time last.
Every night, we'd made love.
Why isn't it the same, now?
Though, on the same bed, we sleep,
He doesn't hear me weep.
His kisses aren't warm, anymore.
Over me, he chose that whore.
Once, to look like her, I painted my face.
Yet, he remained in her embrace.
Every night, I sit in a silent corner.
Wondering about him and her.
Musing, should I tell him,
how, I miss him?