The book of love has music in it
In fact that's where music comes from
And I,
I love it when you sing to me
And you,
You can sing me anything.
I can't stop composing, these days. But my creation always comes out abstract, and isn't it so fitting that I am the Debussy to your Wagner? From Paris to Dresden. In another life, I would be the fille avec cheveux de lin to your Tristan.
But in this life, I'm left wondering if I'm the Rosaline to your Romeo. And I find myself caught somewhere between Mercutio and Juliet, between giving up and giving in.
But for now, I gaze out over this Paris and paint sonatas to fill your German streets. May you find not emptiness in the spaces of your life, but the finest music.
Prove to me now that this isn't the coda, because I am playing dutifully on,
As the ship goes down, my darling.
Time to sink or swim.
The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing
It's full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing
But I,
I love it when you read to me
And you,
You can read me anything