I let myself fall back, thinking you were there.

And in the midst of flying,
I hear your voice echo in my ear,

  Saying those eight letters set fire to my naïve heart,

The three words I always adored,

Soon turned into something I'll loathe.

Now as I fall back into the seams of death,

I get used to falling back into the sinful dark,

For trust surely likes to play a wicked trick.