You phone me at quarter-to-eleven,
Telling me that you belong in heaven,
But you are only intoxicated,
And now that I've been inocculated,
With this long, never-ending depression,
I know how to accept your confession.

But don't you try to find reasons to go,
Because I will instinctively follow,
So let me collect your tears in my palm,
And soothe your forehead 'til you're coldly calm,
So that you forget about ****** blades,
And let this frightening fear slowly fade.