Shut up, shut up, there's nothing you can say to make me think I love him.

This is a love story – he knows it is. She will watch from the back of the courtroom as he is led away, and she will deny we're soulmates as much as he has denied the night of June eighth, the defendant left his house at half past six.

I won't. I promised; this is the last time.

She's beautiful, but all he can see is her hands on another man's face and her lipstick on his jaw. She's beautiful, but all he can see is how much she doesn't care about him.

Just once, kiss me like nobody else is watching.

They are in love in the summer – in the daytime walking in long grass, secret smiles. He ignores everyone else, she calculates how they are drowning in their jealousy.

I don't want another god damned song. A handful of chords in drop D won't make a memory.

He thinks in lyrics – her smile (two choruses and a bridge between her lips) and her eyes (she blinks, and that's the album closer, right there). She thinks in days: sixteen to write, ten to record, ninety on tour (her birthday, Valentine's Day and Christmas in one fell swoop).

There's only so many times I can hear the word 'sorry' before it becomes ironic.

The clock has moved past traffic and late meeting and is well into someone else's bed before she hears keys in the front door.

Nothing can be broken more profoundly than a vow. Congratulations.

Two years from now, he will attempt to burn the photographs. The fire will singe the edge of a white dress before he jumps to save it. The scars on his hands will never go away.

The nights when I can't sleep, the days when I can't stay awake, all these fucking months when I can't smile – it's your fault, all your fault and I hope you're pleased.

He used to tell her, at night (the left side of the bed creaking with discontent), I think my profession is full of shit. She reads the words Bereavement Counselling on a leaflet at night (the left side of the bed empty but his clothes still all over the floor) and says, your profession was full of shit. She will ignore the past tense.

I refuse to love him any more.

He stares at the empty spaces in the closet and the note that says sorry and still be friends and take care of yourself.

He thinks, bugger.