Tear drops on her sleeve, she'll beg but never plead. The stars could all align, but yet she'd still decline. A porcelain image, my saving grace. My blood splat play write, a chaotic fate.
Blood drips down her chin, we're lost, never to win. One touch, I'll say goodbye, while crystal pools leak from her eyes. Apologies, the rumors spread. You make your way back to my bed. Comitting sins, my sweet revenge. For more than two, for more I binge.
Tear drops on her sleeve, she'll beg but never plead. The stars could all align, but yet she'd still decline. A porcelain image, my saving grace. My blood splat play write, a chaotic fate.
If I choose to look up, I know she's looking down. If I turn to my side, she'll pause and turn around. A logical statement, a cry out in pain. A dedicated comittment, a throne of which I'm chained. An exhanging of white lies, a harmful lack of shame. But there are many players in sight, and many who've mastered the game.
Tear drops on her sleeve, she'll beg but never plead. The stars could all align, but yet she'd still decline. A porcelain image, my saving grace. My blood splat play write, a chaotic fate.
A task of no demand, a task of high request. One task will be denied, that task she put to rest. As ocean currents crash, and lightning bolts appear, she melts into my arms, I choose to keep her near. But once she fully liquifies, I start to feel her slip, until she's nothing more to me, than a puddle with attractive lips.
Tear drops on her sleeve, she'll beg but never plead. The stars could all align, but yet she'd still decline. A porcelain image, my saving grace. My blood splat play write, a chaotic fate.
So dawn goes down to dusk. She packs her things in U-Haul trucks. Our creative minds clash, our hearts racing in a flash. Glancing over my horizon, I look to her and say, "She's never coming back, you know? We need to make our way." Through times of noiseless shrieking, and attempts at pointless tweaking, she leaves me writhing on the floor, foam leaks from my mouth as I beg for more. There's nothing left, if you couldn't tell. Baby, we all know that these things go to hell. Maybe after moments fly, their ghastly souls, with mine, will fry. In the pits of fire, there's nothing said. But none of its necessary, we're already dead.
Tear drops on her sleeve, she'll beg but never plead. The stars could all align, but yet she'd still decline. A porcelain image, my saving grace. My blood splat play write, a chaotic fate.
