Not quite a house.

This is the end,
of you and me.
This is the end,
I can now just breathe.
Why should I stay?
And put up with your s.h.i.t.
In my heart,
a few flames you lit.

You know how when you put on a fire?
You light it up and its soon a pyre?
You light up a curtain,
and soon it spreads.
And before you know it,
your house is in shreds.

Well it was the same with my heart,
there's only one difference.
My heart isn't a house,
and it's been burnt since.
You can buy a new house,
you can buy new curtains.
But I'm not sure,
my heart will ever give of that same vibrance.

You burnt the windows,
you burnt the door.
You wiped out the furniture,
and you scarred the floor.
But most importanly,
you killed the family.
Which consisted of simply,
you and me.

It's amazing how the flames,
die away in time.
But how time will never erase,
memories of the crime.
It is said that time,
supposedly heals all wounds,
but I've been waiting and waiting,
I hope the saying comes true soon.

You can buy a new house,
and replace the broken window.
You can sweep the ashes of the floor,
but won't the marks still show?

So you can move out,
to a country very far.
Or maybe even become and astronaut,
and land on your own star.

But no matter how much you accomplish,
how much the flames you try to douse.
It'll never really heal my wounds,
Because my heart,
It's not quite a house.