'cause she doesn't know how could she stop to.
On a cold night like this one,
for she is not the girl you to whom you wrote poems of love so true,
for she doesn't own the stories and pain you're listening to,
for she cannot pretend that she doesn't love you.
She is so unlike you.
She is made to teach,
whilst you are born to preach.
And she cried all of that tonight
while clutching her pillow so tight.
She speaks not in the first person
so she can forget that she's me,
and in everything she do
the reason is you.