It was a labor towards your love
A painful flight by wounded dove
Flighing ever higher towards the sun
But things have changed and I must run
All the things that smell of you
The flower that collects the dew
The swimming goggles in december
The little book that I remember
They hold too much of you
So I will send them to the fire
High atop a wooden pyre
While it burns I say goodbye
And the part of you in me will die