I find myself trying to comfort me.
I'm clutching pictures of the times we shared together,
from the times I thought you loved me,
and the times I thought I loved you, too.

The memories that come to my mind
are all of love and passion,
but inside I know the truth,
they were nothing but an act.

I told you many times that I loved you,
and waited for you to say the same.
Sometimes you responded,
other times you pretended not to hear.

One night I told you I loved you
for the last time.
And I asked you:
"Do you love me, too?"

I stared into your eyes,
and saw the tear rolling down your face.
And you told me:
"I never loved you..."