You don't know what love is. You only know the not-knowing, the always asking yourself why, the always wondering what it was that drove them away, led them astray. Is it you, is it me? We could've been endgame, baby, but you put me on read and left me for dead.
I watch them walk by, this procession of almost-lovers and still-could-bes, because I still would. It's a ghost parade, and I'm the dead girl walking, no, running behind.