Leave them, love - you've spilled enough tears to form constellations.
(Yes, there are stars in their eyes but you know they're not the ones named after you.)
You know you love them like your heart is caught in their fist but it's on fire and you're letting it burn - you're letting it burn so they will notice and they will care the way they say they do.
You know that if I search in you, all I'd find are the bits of them you'd remember better than your own.
And you know you're writing the right song in the wrong key that can never be sung anyway.
You say they care, they worry about you, but so do I, love, so do I.
Look me in the eyes: do they feel like home?
Don't say you love them; instead, tell me loving them doesn't make you feel like placing flowers at your own grave - tell me it doesn't feel like witnessing a murder, or tying yourself down to train tracks and closing your eyes when the headlights approach-
Forget them, love - look how foolish you've become.
(Wring your heart dry.)
Forget the glances and the way they call your name and how they used to talk to you first.
But all that love of yours needs somewhere to go, doesn't it?