Paris

He's waiting at the door,
Begging for you to let him in,
And the rain begins to fall,
Shirt sticking to his skin.
If only I knew you were in Paris for the weekend,
I never would've been her fucking little lapdog.
There's more to it all,
Then pounding your head against a wall,
And the relief when you cease,
The breaking of the fall.
This ain't about me so make no mistake,
We bear the cross of decisions we make,
I'll take it all back,
Hell I'll make it my way,
I'm just the product of choices I've made.