Red granite crumbles
  I fear you
are loosening the vice.
I need your tools
to stay in repair
  but you are tired
  of working.
So I wander along
  tracks of ink
and ponder by deep wells. 
Could you be 
  drawing blueprints
for the day you say
goodbye?
  I break,
slowly,
at the very thought,
picking withered daisies,
  losing hope.
There isn't much to love
in me,
there isn't much
to stay for.
  Seams of pain
  down warped-steel spine.
I cannot bear
the words.
  Your eyes are honest,
your lies are lime.
Say it isn't so,
my love.