The smell of cinnamon hung heavy in the air, as the candle on the desk flickered in the breeze from the badly fitter window. His lavender hands have intentions Stay close to keep warm.
Outside the people are marching in the snow Flaming torches for the capital city Heavy shoulders hung low Swollen hands fill empty pockets.
Three stories up the buzz of the street camera drowns out our words I’ve got so much to say but I hate talking loud Outside the spiral winds down We’re running out of time But tonight darling You’re mine.