There is a voice in my head that is only silenced by the scratching of my pen
I'm sick of the images trapped in my headI'm sick of being preoccupied with the dead
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
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