tomorrow, loving promises are forgotten
taking these moments in our hands and burning them like paper

i heard the sound of a storm that hasn't happened yet


broke women and their wild lovers
lost men and their good souls
maybe home is really the space between two holding hands

oh, but by the end of the evening your spirit will die,
your eyelids will become restless,
and you'll steer straight into the edge of sin
you'll be bitter and you'll blame the dawn and the gold bodies of people bound by the same impossible struggles