And ghosts we are, in the smallest home.
Locking me out, bury my bones.
It's not without you pulling me in and out.
Be careful of my touch.
Be careful it's too much.
In the corner of your grave,
is the absence you save, just trying to make the space for the ones that got away.
Hoping you've heard the last, you've gotten past the fifth and final day.
Being the peasant that you are, you cradled my throne.
And feeble mistakes are plaguing your face.
Be careful of my touch, be careful it's too much
