It's ten of eight,
And my mouth tastes of bad coffee,
And cigarettes.
When it should taste like you.

It's ten of eight,
And my mind is in the darkest dungeon,
Surrounded by demons.
When it should be filled with thoughts of you.

It's ten of eight,
And you're her and she's you,
except that's not how it really is,
And that's not who you really are.

It's ten of eight,
And I've been awake since five.
Knowing you've just closed your eyes,
Wrapped up in his arms.

It's eight o'clock now,
As I finish this piece,
Knowing it's you,
That I can't keep.