With fresh emotion burning in my heart
And a pen in my hand,
I do write to you
To relieve myself
Of my rapid heart palpatations.
I will tell you exactly what you have done to me:

You made me queasy
And uneasy
With that flash of a smile

You made me smile
For awhile
When you told me lame jokes

You made me dance
And romance
Candle-lit dinners and all

You made me hurt
You were curt
When you walked out that door

You made me cry
And ask why
I'd let myself love

You made me doubt
And work out
The problems you'd left behind

And you showed me my flaws,
I withdrawed;
I don't know how to love.

I blame you for making me forget how to love.
I do not believe I love you, or that I ever did.
Love does not end with the closing of a door.
And those involved in love would know that.
Therefore I did not love you
For I must have known that would be how it ended.

What we had was not love
It was pity
And despair
And disaster.

I am writing this to you
To tell you all the things you have done to me,
To relieve myself of my rapid heart palpatations
And to tell you to take what's left of you in my heart back
'Cause I don't want it--
I just want love,
But that can't be found with you.