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Description
There are sterile tables and coffee mugs with nickel spoons clinking their insides,

Key-pad touches and giggles that make mice click,

And with the light of a match humanity is being saved by a Bunsen burner.

I hear the drip of the acid-base distillation that we all love on Fridays,

I hear everyone’s lungs, the human noise they make,

I feel you fill mine like Malaria in the 1880s,

Clinging to my trachea, making me cry.

I am getting so sick from you,of you.

I am turning grey and missing what they call 'important days',

I am sweating you out in these dreams.

But early close to dawn, before the coffee mug conversations,

I see an angel.

And I fall into the space you made between your arms for me.

Description
There are sterile tables and coffee mugs with nickel spoons clinking their insides,

Key-pad touches and giggles that make mice click,

And with the light of a match humanity is being saved by a Bunsen burner.

I hear the drip of the acid-base distillation that we all love on Fridays,

I hear everyone’s lungs, the human noise they make,

I feel you fill mine like Malaria in the 1880s,

Clinging to my trachea, making me cry.

I am getting so sick from you,of you.

I am turning grey and missing what they call 'important days',

I am sweating you out in these dreams.

But early close to dawn, before the coffee mug conversations,

I see an angel.

And I fall into the space you made between your arms for me.