In April I dreamed
of when I'd see you again;
the day never came.
And I held out with hope
that when I we'd meet again
you'd remember me.

In August I heard
the words that you said:
"I miss you, beautiful."
And I held out with hope
that when we met again
your feelings were the same.

In October came the day
I been dreaming of for months;
hardly a sentence did we speak.
And I held out with hope
that when I saw you in a week
more words would be said.

In December came the cursed day
the one I'd been dreading:
I'd hoped to keep at bay.
And I held out with hope
that maybe--just maybe--
you'd take back those words.

"I don't care."