Can't say that I regret much of anything.
But if I regretted not breaking your heart,
Well what kind of man would that have made me?
Well, to start, it would have made me yours.
Well I guess this is the man I've become.
Writing songs on a Sunday with no one.
Parking lots and street lights.
Your baby's not coming home tonight.
Write you a letter, baby,
Don't leave out any insults.
'cause I'll be on top.
In my head we're doing fine.
Yeah, in my mind, yeah, you're loving me all the time.
Well I guess this is the man I've become,
Writing songs on a Sunday with no one.
Having you been my only regret.
I suppose I can live with that.