I've been marinated by all of this, easy to chew but still hard to swallow
Is there still a trace of silver inside the crushing cumulus above?
And it fits that i pretend the ceiling is your face, in anticipation of my next move
The traces of night's spackle shimmer when you brush your hair away
Let it engulf me in its event horizon
You are the perfect that i wouldn't allow myself to see
An angel with the widest wings who loved the devil inside of me