I did, once.

This isn't a love poem, not anymore, because I wrote enough

Especially about you; it didn't help much in the end

Maybe that's because I wrote about the useless flowery stuff

Maybe that's what help me play such a game of pretend, however

It's not a mistake to say I loved you,

I did, once.

All I remember is that we both went down swinging and called it a draw

And all I know is that I tried, and maybe you did too

In the end, it wasn't really about what you said or what I saw

It was about our seperate perceptions of what was true, and

I don't blame you anymore,

but I do still hate you just a little bit.