The one is nothing but fantasy
A figment of hope so arduous to grasp
Perfect silhouettes from sky rise windows
Shadows perfect every curve 
A million lives are born inside those perfect eyes
A million die when I walk right on
Slow dancing on the hardwood floor
Every creak silenced by the old vinyl player
Pictures painted by Nina and Miles fail to send me to the places your smile does
But I feel you fading as the rain falls sooner
A dream for all but a second for me felt like a life full
The one is a fantasy
Not one penned by Shelley or Neruda, but Dostoyevsky and Kafka