The air is thick in the presents of you.
Nerves shot to hell
And there never seems to be enough Time,
Her wicked game
Makes Love bow to his needs in prayer
Hoping to gain more Time,
She’s a fickled girl
Giving Love a chase,
Though all too quickly the sands have stopped dropping for Love,
Checked in the back by cupid’s arrow
Chasing what’s left of Time,
An hourglass unturned
As the air grows thin without you.