Mont-Saint-Michel, they don’t know that you’re hurting
If even they’ve a thought to spare you
How’s that stitching feel, Morgan, under the carpet
After five times through Clair de Lune
I sit and stare and see nothing but his lips
I’m crawling out my skin and I need something to worship
Pair-non-pair, they don’t know that you’re crying
Or how much you paid for that veil
How’s that silence feel when there’s no one there to break it
You’ve swung at it to no avail
I sit and stare and see nothing but his hips over me
I’m sneaking out my skin and I need something to worship
If I were a room I’d be room number 8
At the end of a mahogany hallway
There’s an unopened book on a green velvet chaise
And a case of Bordeaux in the closet
There’s Chantilly lace over tall windows, draped
And a cracked hour glass on the nightstand
There’s wet wood piled in a marble fireplace
And people dancing round a fountain
In a painting on the wall
Paris par la fenetre
♥