Making a case for bitter wine.
Cause empty bottles seems like such a crime.
Just let it take a little more time.
What do our lips have that ours hearts can't find?
These days my hell is much too cold.
My bad hands long for what they used to know.
Sink low and bury in my soul, Your mothers home.
What is a vice without a stain?
Pulling the air through all this empty blame.
I am a habit, you are the shame.
But I would have never put you out this way.
We made our bed into a book.
Sung lovely sonnets we misunderstood.
Burn brightly pages we left for love to write.

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