Glowing, your shadow kept away the clouds that cast them
Shouldn’t it be the most ironic of fates; to be right here?
A fatal misstep, and the ones holding open doors.
We tripped where we stood, dear.

Shining, like the whiskers shaved to give way to new flesh
Wouldn’t it be the most ironic of fates; to be left alone now?
A decision to walk through, and the ones shutting us down.
We stood where we tripped somehow.

Unglued, seals that held back the waterworks
Couldn’t it be the most ironic of fates; to disappear at your most visible?
A waiting game, and the ones who never stopped playing
We landed on waiting on the metaphysical

Missing, like the pictures of those who ran so long ago
It could be the most ironic of fates; to be right next to you
And for the end to be exactly the same
Don’t disappear now, as I can’t wait to be your scene