What is love and now has died,
Warm sheets where I once lied.
I only asked to touch your face
Not for the rough and cold embrace.
Now dead behind the eyes,
Here in the home of all your lies.

Now I take the blame,
The price of losing fame.
Because this is just your show,
And now you let it snow.
How I desire heat.
That'd be quite the feat,
To warm my lonely sorrow
And know something of tomorrow.
For burning sparks
And walks in parks
Warm far better the winter's frost
Than the salt of these tears.

But all I feel is burning fire
In this house upon a wire.
The pressure of their heartbeat,
Sheets indifferent to the heat.
If you had let me know your face,
I'd need but only one embrace.

I had asked to see your face
But not to feel a cold embrace.
The home of all your lies,
Yet I sit behind disguise.
Claiming, that to know nothing of tomorrow,
Would bring but bitter sorrow.