Neon shivers on the skin of the street, a borrowed name, a borrowed heat. Behind the curtain, the air still holds the ash of what you would not speak. Set my heart on fire, set my heart on fire, not as a match, not as a lie — as the fault-line under my breath, the quiet wire. Maboroshi no yami, the dark that keeps returning, the only truth I ever learned without a warning. Rain on Shinjuku, chrome in the puddles. Someone asks for a soul like pocket change. You smile, you vanish, you let the room tremble. Even desire has its own hunger — strange. Set my heart on fire, set my heart on fire, not as a match, not as a lie — if it turns to ash, let it burn with my desire. Maboroshi no yami, the dark that never leaves, a paper lantern flickering, a city that believes. The flame doesn’t ask. It just takes. Still the body leans toward it, still the silence breaks. Love can make a ruin glow, then ask for more again — you learn to love the wound, you learn to wear the stain. Set my heart on fire, set my heart on fire, if this is a dream, let it burn clean. Maboroshi no yami — the dark that never lets go, the only prayer I know: set my heart aglow. Set my heart… on fire. Maboroshi.
