Morning surrenders itself
into a haze of melancholy
hanging grim from a pale moon.
into a haze of melancholy
hanging grim from a pale moon.
When it's eight o'clock
I'll catch a faint whiff of your favorite perfume
as if you had reached the bottom of our house's stairs.
I'll catch a faint whiff of your favorite perfume
as if you had reached the bottom of our house's stairs.
But that's all there is,
the door won't open and you won't come in.
the door won't open and you won't come in.
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