You Know too well that you you're the first one,
I'm not lying if I swear I would give
for you my whole life, for you my whole life,
and yet, for a while, every day, you see,
cheat on you with anyone,
change you for anyone.
Not so sorry or happy
to meeting me, I confess.
You who have kissed soo much
You who have teached me,
You know better than me that until to the bones
penetrate only the kisses you have not given
the lips of a sin.
Because a house without you is an ambush,
the passage of a train at dawn,
a labyrinth without light or red wine
a veil of tar on my eyes.
And I get poisoned with the kisses I given, and,
however, when I sleep without you,
I dream with you, and with everybody else if you do with me;
and if you go away, I go through the roof like a cat without owner
lost in a tissue of bitterness
that clouds your beauty without stain it.
Should not tell it and, however,
when I ask for the key to a hotel
at midnight a good French champagne custom
with candles and dinner for two,
is always with another, love, never you,
you know what I mean.
Because a house without you is an office,
a phone ringing on fire in a booth
a palm tree in the wax museum
an exodus of black swallows.
I'm not lying if I swear I would give
for you my whole life, for you my whole life,
and yet, for a while, every day, you see,
cheat on you with anyone,
change you for anyone.
Not so sorry or happy
to meeting me, I confess.
You who have kissed soo much
You who have teached me,
You know better than me that until to the bones
penetrate only the kisses you have not given
the lips of a sin.
Because a house without you is an ambush,
the passage of a train at dawn,
a labyrinth without light or red wine
a veil of tar on my eyes.
And I get poisoned with the kisses I given, and,
however, when I sleep without you,
I dream with you, and with everybody else if you do with me;
and if you go away, I go through the roof like a cat without owner
lost in a tissue of bitterness
that clouds your beauty without stain it.
Should not tell it and, however,
when I ask for the key to a hotel
at midnight a good French champagne custom
with candles and dinner for two,
is always with another, love, never you,
you know what I mean.
Because a house without you is an office,
a phone ringing on fire in a booth
a palm tree in the wax museum
an exodus of black swallows.
And I get poisoned with the kisses I given, and,
however, when I sleep without you,
I dream with you, and with everybody else if you do with me;
and if you go away, I go through the roof like a cat without owner
lost in a tissue of bitterness
that clouds your beauty without stain it.
And when you come back there's a party in the kitchen
and dances without orchestra and bouquets of roses with thorns,
but two is not equal to one plus one
and on Monday morning coffee
becomes the cold war and from heaven of your mouth goes the purgatory
to the bedroom the daily bread ...
however, when I sleep without you,
I dream with you, and with everybody else if you do with me;
and if you go away, I go through the roof like a cat without owner
lost in a tissue of bitterness
that clouds your beauty without stain it.
And when you come back there's a party in the kitchen
and dances without orchestra and bouquets of roses with thorns,
but two is not equal to one plus one
and on Monday morning coffee
becomes the cold war and from heaven of your mouth goes the purgatory
to the bedroom the daily bread ...
*I want a hammer to break the glass between us.
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