We fell asleep with Astral Weeks on repeat, on repeat.
We awoke, the morning choked on all the things that young lovers do.
None of this is real but the way the morning feels:
The blush of light that dulls the night,
The rush of early risers in their wingtips and half-heels.
None of this is real.
We fell asleep with Astral Weeks on repeat, on repeat.
Was I gone for you? Were you gone for me? Gone for you, gone for me,
None of this is real but the way a morning feels:
The rush of light that stuns the night,
The crush of early risers in their wingtips and sawed-off heels.
None of this is real.