The stars aren't as bright as they used to be,
but maybe it's because I don't wish on them anymore.
And I haven't asked the moon for a favour in ages,
but I guess I never got much from it in the first place.
At what cost does love come?

I lost my friends in the sky when you kissed my lips
and whispered the bitter truth that every shooting star is dying.
Sure it was naive to wish on stars
and to wholeheartedly believe
that escapes would reach me by magic of the night.

But my innocence was never yours to rob,
and I wish, upon dying stars
that I had known that before.