It's late is it late
          already when the floor smells like cinnamon and
       welcomes you softly then refuses to let you up
                            and fire climbs streetlamps sheds
                                      orange-red light on this scene
Did you catch the
           entrance of our heroine by the stair
                 with patented uncertainty
                                 mystery's mark upon the air
                                           we breathe so
                                                       casually
I couldn't tear my eyes away
         wouldn't miss it for the world the
                       one I like to be in every
                             once and again