Holly barbs on my hands as I hold the weather away. No, dear, there's no storm, no scourging winter outside. Perform the rite we have agreed to perform on these unwitnessed nights where little drops drip from the holes in my palms. No, dear, there's no storm, no scourging winter inside. I close your eyes gently; no holes in the warm dark behind them. that's where you'll meet me.