Love is her virtue,

But it hurts her like sin, sometimes.

She makes love to him in her thoughts,

In an unknown place, in an unknown room.

Then returns to her hidden wound.

Behind this black curtain, they'll never see her eyes.

And one thing is for certain: they'll never be side by side.

Love is her disease,

But it heals like a cure, sometimes.

Afflictions that tie her soul,

From spools of unwrapped thread, that stitch her wound.

And underneath her window, she'll watch the world pass by,

Hiding all her secrets, in the wound she keeps inside.

Love is her virtue, but it hurts like sin, sometimes.

(sometimes)