Die Hard.

Give me back those memories.
Those tears, the fears, the love,
The hurt, the anger, the sadness.
All of the good, and especially the bad.
But most of all, give me back the heart you tore from my chest.
Give it back, and I'll do the rest.
I'll destroy and rebuild.
I need a new foundation to build upon.
We no longer speak, and I'm fine with that,
Because I really don't have anything to say,
Other than "good luck."
But that doesn't mean much, not coming from me.
The same way it doesn't mean much, coming from you.
I picked up some bad habits, just to try and recover.
Heroin, pills, booze, women, black outs and late nights.
But the worst of em all, was believing you.
The late night excursions couldn't cover that up,
Withdrawal lasted well over a year.
But here I am, free and clear.
I might have that needle in my arm from time to time still,
But the memory of you is gone with the wind.
Old habits die hard.