I loved a girl who loved her tea.
She loved her tea more than she did me.
She needed caffeine to start her day,
for it to go the proper way.
Then in time, tea turned to liquor.
And her lips grew redder and her eyeliner thicker.
I'd work my days and think of her,
but she'd work the nights and dress in fur.
I came home to see this girl, this chamomile of mine,
and the little bruise inside her arm was the first revealing sign.
She was champagne sunshine, my sparkling soul,
but now she's an overturned bottle with an unholy hole.
I still love her in all the ways
but she spreads her love on others at the end of each day.
I still like the girl who likes to drink.
But she's forgotten about me, I think.
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