Interior; Lt. Collins St, After Midnight

High strung
Weak wrists
A peroxide blonde with blood-red lips
So cool; like a feather
New work
Sea breeze
She is quieter now than she's ever been
Like new sheets of paper

High tongue
Sweet thing
Presses into me, and she tastes like gin
And a note unfamiliar
She said
We'd win
That her heart still lives at Little Collins Street
High above all the terror

But the calendar has whittled away
There are piles of dead leaves in the entrance way
And a key that doesn't fit anyway

Long gone
Twice removed
But it still feels like her job is to light the moon
Still stings like ever
Cruel clock
Mean ticks
I've got piles of her paper that still bears
Her ink and sings her praises

If you ever wander bye in the street
In the arms of other lovers who I couldn't be
And if you ever turn a temperate thought to me



Credits
Writer(s): Liam Davies, Luke Shields, Reece Choucair, Ryan Shields
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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