liars.
and everything was wrong so we sang sentimental songs.
Oh how seldom we belong but how elegant our kiss
and we painted crooked lies
but we danced in perfect time to a love so much refined
we know not what it is until like a dullen wine we pour
into a grief we know before but it's never quite like this.
never quite like this.
all I know now is regret: it follows like a silhouette
along the cobblestone behind me
but has nothing to say except to innocently ask
a voice as delicate as glass
"Do you see me when we pass?"
but I continue on my way.