You breathe me in, like oxygen.

Only the Lord knows, just how much we've sinned.

I crave your touch in the most unorthodox of ways. We are destructive, problematic; We are the creators of future pain.

I'm not sure if I can live on my own. Doesn't this all sound like an ironic joke?

I know one day we'll have to stop, once our passion goes out of stock.

Then we'd have to keep our desire pent up and locked.

Is it just me? Or can you also hear the ticking of our clock?