1) I would die without music. I mean really die. The melancholy moodiness of the melodies and the angsty alluring allusions to love... they get me every time.
2) I love the smell of roses; the idea of a natural perfume is beautiful. The way that it was only ever touched by the fingers of Mother Nature is a foreign concept to our man-made world.
3) I don't believe he emanated sunshine, but more, he released a kind of comfortable sadness that I grew to be quite fond of, the kind of sadness that will keep you company on a rainy Sunday.

You talk all this crap about immigrants
So tell me
What tribe do you belong to?

"You are out of his league"
I know
"You used to date football and rugby players."
I know
But haven't you seen the way he looked at me
How he dolls me up in dresses
The snuggles. Wine. Abalone and caviar.
You haven't seen the way
He waits for me with roses at the station.
Massaging me on a Friday night, ripping off
his tie to cover me with kisses.
The way he calls me "Princess" and builds me a blanket fort

So what if he is below my league
if he is the one picking out shoes for me carefully
and the one who holds me
When I cry, tears streaming down like a baby
I have a high league.
I know falcons will circle beauty.
At Davos, or maybe Boao.
But he is not out of my league, He is the league
I belong to.
Snow boots and suits through the Swiss snow.
Just to tuck me in
where my heart is at home