One o'clock in the morning just seems to be your hour;
loving, fighting, talking, crying-- all you.
That smug smirk will never leave the face of my clock.
You young thing, you confused old soul,
you're nothing else to anyone, but me.
I hope you realise that.
One o'clock has memories of your face in them,
memories full of lust and sharp words.
Only my memories, only my ears to ear, only my body to touch.
The ones I love, hate you and I hate the ones I love.
I guess you're one of them.