Trace around her lips with his fingers, he tries to draw on a smile,
'Give it time. These scars are the stars that will show you the light.'
And now she's all he sees;
he stays awake to watch her breathe the unheard
melodies; the grace notes of her restless sleep.

Hold me now, don't let it fade away from here. It's so clear…

His tattered undershirt-a souvenir that she likes to breathe in.
She sighs-days doing nothing unconscious of time.
And now he's all she sees;
she stays awake to watch him breathe the unknown
poetry; sweet sonnets of how it should be.

And everybody might just have these same ideas--
these same plans--I suppose...

We've found a perfect niche:
where plastic meets perfect, kill substance for style...
But inside, we get burned by the fuel that we cannot deny.