Her heart was smoke in porcelain dress
Like the pile of books beside her bed
She was discovery, recovery
Dystrophy, a mist to me
Amiss, we wander those parchment worlds
Through ink-riddled halls with walls of leather
Always apart as we sit together

Self-abuse
Through glasses of water where adventure swims
When we press to our lips them and their words
A new venture begins

Worlds made of wood, a dead forest dwells here
And again I will walk those graves
For the end of this world draws near

A touch of skin, a must in the air
My heart, your eyes pass by the shelves
As we search whats there

A mutual abuse
I love books more than You

And we trust through the pain and the mist
As it is novels through which we kiss