Let's pretened we were five when crimson was only a colour.

I put him on the bedside table and took him out of my mind
And then with the ironic symmetry these situations tend to favour
You walked in the room and you managed to unwind the shackles of my twisted thoughts and every single demon that kept me from wanting him.
We counted to one hundred days and with each one it got a little easier to slip into some sort of routine.
Where feelings could never burst from the seams but it got so simple to say they did.
I find it monotonous now and you, well, you've got the dictionary scrawled on the back of your hand. They always say you know it well.
You could recite it like the alphabet that you've known since you were one and even a fallen Jesus couldn't tame your tongue.
We've not got enough circles left to walk for me to give up on my lines and with every one you collect the leftovers until you've got a bag of foreign currency. One with an illegal taste and a street value of so much more.
Shall we begin to tell everyone else what's been going on? Because you see, you and me, we've been such fun but now seriously I can't compete with the messages that are starting to gather dust. Somewhere within this twenty first century, I think I've got a pen and a little bit of paper. The postman told me he still delivers Saturdays but he builds bombs in his spare time.
I tried to buy one off him so I could explode my heart and fling the fragments across the room, so that maybe sometime soon you could fill my body with blood. I emptied it all for your amusement and you just watched me bleed. So you rated me like a pilot episode and the verdict left me with uncertainty. I was never more than a fleeting glance and you, you were my life.