Midnight bent, I lick the glass of a neon lie,
London rain tastes like your ex-girlfriend’s perfume.
Train tracks hum “run” in 808s, so I ghost in Jimmy Choos,
snort the moon, chase the line till my heart turns blue.
Phone’s dead, morals on flight mode, cruising at 3 a.m.—
070 in my bloodstream, Raye on the dash, both screaming amen.
Crucify tomorrow, steal the sun, pocket it for bail;
if love is prison, baby, we’re the sirens tearing down the jail.