(no subject)
I know that you're an artist; you're the hardest one to deal with.
Everything that you conceal is revealed on your canvas.
You find all of your ugly meanings in the things I find beautiful.
Do you see the fall is coming? Come on, falling into you.
You percieve all of these things I never have known.
Love, will you turn out the lights? 'Cause we're already home.
You're painting me in pastels - colours that don't tell of any boldness.
That's the way you love to see me, so delicate, so weak, so little purpose.
But your eyes are drawn with charcoal, they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect...
They see a sleeping world where waking isn't worth it.
I know that you're an artist.
Everything that you conceal is revealed on your canvas.
You find all of your ugly meanings in the things I find beautiful.
Do you see the fall is coming? Come on, falling into you.
You percieve all of these things I never have known.
Love, will you turn out the lights? 'Cause we're already home.
You're painting me in pastels - colours that don't tell of any boldness.
That's the way you love to see me, so delicate, so weak, so little purpose.
But your eyes are drawn with charcoal, they're black, they're so cold, they're so imperfect...
They see a sleeping world where waking isn't worth it.
I know that you're an artist.