And the sea is calling her to her: "Come alone" As she dials a number with her fingers on her phone And the keys are falling from her coat As I weave my fingers round her perfumed throat No, I can't give her what she wants I can't give her what she really needs I can't give her what she wants It'd push her away... So, I turn my attention to the bruise That's on her fist Feel the pulse beneath her almost perfect wrist And the flames are crawling Round the note she wrote Flickering like fingers around the lining of her coat And I see her silhouette on every street Hear the clatter of her pretty, pretty feet And all that's left is ashes of her sorry little note So nobody can ever read the sentences she wrote