Fresh.

Now the tree is naked and bare.
Like my heart and your stare.
It's easy for me to remember
the days in bed, playing with your hair.
Coldplay in the air.
The sound of heartbeats spelling out our names
and perhaps this is so tragic 'cause I never had as good as you
and now I know how bad it can be
My god, this is killing me.

And whilst the poets make their money
on heartache and things like these
I will write about you and me
and how Perfect can seem
hidden with stupidity.

But I'll tell them, I'll say,
"There's always a day
where you're forced to grow up
where you're forced to move on
to walk away."
"Cause hindsight's a bitch." That'll be my catch phrase.
And there's no going back, it all goes astray

Heavenly prices to pay...