In the obstructed morning, a place of didacts
And pedantic passerby, and social vista of Perdido and ambient arcane fires of love
Perdition could be sensual, or superstition could be unsatiated
We could obstruct our cozy mornings with dingy dreams and bright cups of coffee, love's a new game
Reading books, and placing our shiny spectacles on the bass guitar, the coffee is getting cold on the plate
But, the table gets hotter, too bad the kitchen is too big without you
The bed is getting smaller, as I toss and turn, and dream of the real you is perfect
The dream of love and the idea of a bed better with just you, you make me collate these feelings and place my nosegays just right.
Perfection requires the right hand of time.