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.

Pollen on your lips,
a bee in search of it,
I usurp it, get more
than what I asked for.

ഈ തേനീച്ച കൊതിച്ചതിലേറെ

നിൻ ചുണ്ടിലെ   പരാഗം
തേടിയെത്തി തേനീച്ച ഞാൻ
കവർന്നതു ഞാൻ  നുകരവേ
കൊതിച്ചതിലെറെ ത്തന്നു നീ

When he asks you to write about him, remind him that you are not that kind of poet. When he asks you to describe his eyes, stop yourself from telling him how bright they are and how they remind you of the stars you stare at in the late night. Do not tell him they are brighter than any of those stars and while they may not light up the whole sky, they sure as hell light up your heart. Instead, smile and tell him that they are just blue – nothing is very special about them. He will ask you why your hands and lips tremble when you're with him, but you mustn't explain how fast your heart beats when he looks at you, or how sometimes you swear your lungs fill up with smoke when you hear him laugh soundly because of something you said. You shouldn't write about him, because you're not the kind of girl that writes about someone who could be here one day, and easily gone the next.

When you've had your fun and you've had your laughs and your mind starts to wonder to the past.
When your plastered smile turns to a frown and you feel your heart turning around.
When your days are short and your nights are long and it feels so impossible to be strong.
When you hear your soul cry out for me, I'm still right here where I said I'd be.

The summer grasses
All that remains
Of brave soldiers dreams