And then she knew, it was graver than before
And then she knew they would never find a cure
In time she'd be sorry that she asked
Because he coldly answered, "Darling...


Let my sins be scarlet, if it means my words are read,
Let my songs be sung by those who don't belong
when I am dead"


He turns a page. In the front she has inscribed:
My love, your words are a thousand dancing knives."
In time, he'd be sorry that he asked
Because she coldly answered, "Darling...


They say each sin will write itself upon a guilty face
Until the world may read with ease your heavy
fail from grace."


Red ink, dripping from your fingers
Red ink, can never be erased.


If their fate was preordained, it was scribbled
across the skies
With a chewed up leaky biro drooling ink on hows
and whys



Red ink, dripping from your fingers
Red ink, can never be erased
It's too late for us to turn the page