two

Most times, i can find the memories... one's that go with these

But the cuts too tight, and the fit isn't right for guarantees, just a black disease

And I try, try to make the clothes feel right, try to sleep tonight

But you're no longer there, just the smell of your hair and your dead machine and a Darkened screen

I was the one who

I was the one who left you there

You're my guilty pleasure

But it's too hard to fit the circle to square

It's a fake quiet, one that tortures and speaks, and it's lasted for weeks