• Your hand moves to the small of my back,

    But we're walking on pins and needles, our shoes we lack.

    We're growing our own garden of razorblades,

    Hiding it with a tarp until the morning sunshine fades.

    The tarp is weathered and worn, sliced and sewn,

    You wear gloves of leather, to hide the evidence shown.

    Criminals of the most innocent kind,

    All of our evidence, left straight behind.

    We aren't afraid if they find out it was you and I,

    By the time they realize the victims are on death's bed, we shall be paralyzed.

    Immobile from our toes up to our lips,

    Fingers glued together, in case another blade slips.

    You dug our graves down near the pond,

    Where we'll rest together--forever and beyond.