Watching the orange colors of the setting sun with you was wonderful
Your mouth was an origin of catastrophe
Black clothes are only worn when praying for the deceased
The mark of rouge leaves behind deep red purposely
In myself, I see no dreams, like unpainted pictures
How many times must I fill this canvas?
I'll abandon time as I hold a white flag overhead
I am your unknown color now
Not queen writing Byron-level PROSE for a pop single.
The Taylor of Japan