Lilith

Love, like a burning-out lightbulb, flares up brightly but leaves a smell of smoke. Everything is on the edge here: jealousy and attraction, barbs and passion, turned into a game with no winner. She is Lilith, stubborn, venomously beautiful, like sin in a glass of wine. He's the one who promises not to look, but still writes again, as if addicted to his own destruction. The music sounds like the tremors after an argument: the bass presses against your chest, the synth stirs somewhere under your skin. There's weariness in the words, from pain having long become a familiar currency. Love here doesn't heal, it tests your strength. And the louder "I love you," the sharper the blow.