You and your Greek hair slanting on the table and smiling:
Trolius and Cressida in the morning. Could you imagine? With coffee mugs and grape leaves in their hair? Cressida with a loaf of bread, standing over an aroused Troilus, "Stop pressuring me, Sweet Honey-Greek!" While the crowd laughed and clapped, this is all a misunderstanding.
Stop pressuring me, sweet Honey-Greek. Christmas tree lights weaved in and out of your eyes and I was reminded that I once gave up on you.
Your mind turned up as sprigs throughout the summer. Sprigs of Honey-Greek and sprigs of you: on land, under my window, behind the basketball court. And I thought I chopped them all up.
Cressida built a blanket fort and Trolius thought it was a reason to sprout.
There were sprigs of Honey-Greek underwater; and then I gave up. How can you think with all that stuff on top of you? You canβt even breathe. Youβre not even breathing.