She pours her honey words down my throat.
It takes but moments to become drunk on her artful prose.
And the lavender fills my spirits
As she buries her head in my heavy chest

Yet, you'd dare say she's sleeping with stolen dreams.
That it should be your words which intoxicate me,
That your perfume should give me life as you lay your soul into me.

And maybe for a moment, some time ago it was your words,
Which set my soul aflame.
But on came the night where you made your great escape.

It was I who was but a passing fancy,
with kind words and a gentle heart.
Was it not also your tongue
Which lashed it poison onto my breast.

She is fluid, calm and formless.
As the fire passes and I call to be healed.
It is not your words, but hers, which soothe.
So on your bitter thrown of curses, do not dare
Say that she sleeps with stolen dreams
For it was her words which rescued me
And it is her pen, which will write away this pain.