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Shadows taste of vintage silk.
We talk in codes we never wrote.
This ice has known its slow, slow fall.
A borrowed peace. A gilded room.
The scent of all that's been moved through.
These walls have held a thousand scenes.
They keep the warmth of might-have-beens.
A quiet chord. A shape of bone.
We're parallax on velvet thrones.
Two satellites with crossed-up lines.
We're clocks that chime at different times.
(Shadows taste...)
(We talk in codes...)
(A warm sound rises and covers the words, leaving everything and nothing said.)