Can I go away while my heart stays here? I have to go back to where my heart is.
Can I go away while my heart stays here? I have to go back to where my heart is.
I don’t know how to tell you who I am by telling you a name. I hate my name, dear saint, because my name is your enemy. If I had it written down, I would tear up the paper.
I haven’t heard you say a hundred words yet, but I recognize the sound of your voice. Aren’t you Romeo? And aren’t you a Montague?
I’ll keep standing here, even if you keep forgetting. I’ll forget that I have any home besides this spot right here.
It’s almost morning. I want to make you go, but I’d only let you go as far as a spoiled child lets his pet bird go. He lets the bird hop a little from his hand and then yanks him back by a string.
'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone. And yet no further than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from his hand Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silken thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Can I go away while my heart stays here? I have to go back to where my heart is.
By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.