I can't stand the way you don't understand the light.
You imagine yourself painted in gold walking among sandy beaches as the tide comes in,
Sipping on a mimosa, biting at a croissant.
I imagine you think everyday will be like this.
Time grows a bit weary,
We go home,
We leave the tide behind, we can't bring the sand home, we have no space.
I'll be at my desk writing away at the next piece, the next big shot chance at trying to prove to you and the world I got it this time.
You'll go to work, you'll come home and
you'll tell me Sally isn't cut for the job but Andy, your boss, he won't fire her.
You'll look over my shoulder, think to yourself about how this one isn't going to be the big shot.
You'll tell me: "it's coming along well honey."
I won't here the sincereness flicker off your lips. There was no fire starter to begin with.
You'll crawl to bed,
You haven't the strength to speak to me in tongues.
I'll ask, "baby doll what's the matter?"
You'll tell me, "I can't stand this place. I can't stand the way the sunrises. We need to go back."
I'll tell you now, "baby doll, like Rick said to Ilsa, we'll always have Paris."
"We never even went to Paris," you'll say to me.