| I press your hand in mine however cautiously, I keep a smile right to myself
|
| And I lapse into the grasp of an overriding obsession
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| And I get sick as I watch my interests fall into suspension
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| This Winter
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| So cold, Creeping down your arm
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| Stealth soldiers, Creeping around your palm
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| It’s hard, hard to understand
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| Little victories won creeping around your hand
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| The sickness has taken hold through violent, blurted syllables
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| Escape my mouth under my breath
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| The voice of pricking dread is whispering insistent in my ear
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| My paranoia galvanised by your gaze, so austere
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| This Winter…
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| I pinned your crest to my chest, hoping it might start to look right
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| There was hushed talk of young boy’s corpse lying face down in some river
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| His hands used to move like mine
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| I can’t stand myself this morning, i am practically that boy
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| No strength to endure, Ghostly insecure, Pallid through lack of choice
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| This winter… |