Letras:Frank Turner. The First Three Years. Cassanova's Lament.

I checked that I've got all my things before I've left the house, 'cos when I'm gone, I'm never coming back. I'm not being melodramatic, it's just I neither have your number or a key.

An evening spent pretending that we're just becoming friends, or that this goes any further than going back. I'm not being pessimistic, it's just you and I were never meant to be.

It isn't love, it isn't love, it isn't love, but every time I kind of wish it was.

I picked up this silly habit in the last few years of going out in the evening to the town with all my friends of packing a spare t-shirt in my bag in case I do not make it home.

It's pathetic and I know it, but the truth is there've been mornings I've proved prudent taking toothpaste to the pub, but it's precious little comfort against the knowledge of the person I've become.

It isn't love, it isn't love, it isn't love, but every time I kind of wish it was, and I can see it in your eyes you kind of wish it was but every time I leave you just because it isn't love.