Testo:
Move into the grave that bares your name all in the taste of salt on your neck for me to walk face first into sliding glass for your pleasure my high is creeping, but is it set in stone? we're both wasted, but we're not going anywhere like this (now i) choke on the urge of taking it back (so we'll see right through) (till i'm) spilling the blood that rests on my tounge (dreaming) of holding your head, detached from the rest this fuse left burning, but now we're far too close lest sick from the guild you spread to let the past stitch our wounds and seal our tears lust sick in this momen we won't believe in anything
