the portrait.

 he cares, oh, god, he cares

but why should he care?

she was nothing but an alcoholic,

suffering from careless pain.

he knew, yes, he knew

he knew much about her.

he loved her, he protected her

he devoted his time to her.

she worries, yet she worries

worries what love is.

the girlfriend and the others on her mind

seems to fade away.

the knife, a knife

a blade so shiny she could

see her reflection.

she left it.

he ran, indeed, he ran

ran to find her hopefully alive.

but as he sneaks in, he finds a gun,

a pistol of no other.

she wept, help her, god, she's weeping

thinking about suicide again.

but she didn't shoot herself.

she shot the portrait.

the portrait, yes, the portrait

a portrait of him and her

hugging and smiling.

a burning sensation in his lungs.

"i'm sorry," she repeated. "i'm sorry."

he wanted her to shut up,

and so he ran again,

hugging her like the portrait.

there's something about the portrait,

there's something about the portrait,

there's something about the portrait,

that makes him love her more than himself.