You were always the quiet one
With strange ambition for oblivion
The bite of the cold is always you to me
The smell of the quiet brings your taste to me
You were always the twisted one
Who drank your solace from anyone
For the strength of your hate I loved your bitterness
For the blood in your soul I loved your emptiness
We always wonder why good things die
We cry them our poison and we drink ourselves dry
And cut flowers always die
The bite of the cold is always you to me
The smell of the quiet brings your taste to me