I'm sick of the images trapped in my headI'm sick of being preoccupied with the dead
Traveling down a road of self-destructionWith no room for any reconstruction
I remember all the things we said we'd doAnd how not a single thing we said was true
There is a voice in my head that is only silenced by the scratching of my pen
We dreamt of a crappy apartment somewhereMaking love while we let the midnight airFlow through the open window, into our closed heartsLeft bitter from heartbreak and too much time apart