Curtains flowing white silk,
It's cigarette smoke on the wind,
But you know it's amiss,
Because they never fight,
So you drown in cold, hollow silence,
The insomniac's sleep paralysis,
That chamomile tea bitter on your tongue,
The bag dunked into the cure overstayed it's welcome,
Maybe they're just asleep,
But you know that's a lie,
And so's the tea.