I am bored with love,
and it's passionless limbs that drape over my bed
and it's lethargic state of impotence
while it still idiotically wears that same red heart.

There we were alone in togetherness
trying to build dreams with two by fours and glue,
but even a home wouldn't bind us
when our hearts lived so alone...

Poetic vows cliched into nothingness,
like all words eventually do,
and we allowed our bodies to become
another pair of hollow shadows
that made love to walls
instead of to each other.

and still we wondered why
the roses were dying

when it says "same red heart" does it mean "same red hat", or is that just part of the conceit?