Strolling in Manhattan, 
I've read where it's said that 
she sleeps in a bed made of satin
Paranoid everyone is laughing
everytime I think about us crashing
What he said, what she said, 
what they did, what they did then. 
Even the times they argued, bickered, 
seperated, agonised, and rejoined. 
Each light and shadow and red.
Each sight and meadow and bed.
How they would love to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. 
What's lost is lost, 
we can't regain 
what went down in the flood
We were unhealthy together. 
But how else can we live, these days, 
except in the midst of ruin? - Amour