If I could love you like I loved you
when we were young and unaware that
things age and mature, and become dull
and lifeless, that life ages and matures and
becomes dull and lifeless,
I would. I would.
I wish that I could give you that effortless smile,
the one that I see Hollywood actresses flash
to males undeserving of their happiness
as they\'re not delicate enough to cherish
a woman\'s happiness, a woman\'s blinding and
million reasons smile,
a woman\'s predicament over how to love somebody
that used to be so easy to love.
Had I been told that I would not be your youthful
sweetheart forever, I\'m not fully convinced I would
have taken on the job. I commit to things for life
and I\'m struggling to commit to love even though
I can see the pain in your eyes as I push you away
and tease you as if we were children.
Except we\'re not.
Are we?
Love is so much easier when you cannot understand it,
recognise the life sentence that is love, recognise that love
embeds itself within you, never to leave, only to gently ebb away into
somebody else when you think you have found
somebody worth ebbing yourself into until
you are completely empty and suddenly those warm July days
have passed and I am sitting in the cold in December whilst you
are swimming through June for July.
You are not selfish. Oh dear, no.
You don\'t get it, dear. A woman\'s love is
complicated. A young girl\'s love is
complicated. The love I ebbed into you as a
young girl is a different love to the love I am
forcing into you as a woman.
I want to love you like a young girl once loved a
young you.
I want to be youthful again.
Because I didn\'t know what love was.
And I didn\'t know who I was.
Only everything I wanted to be and
everything we would be.
I want us to be July.
But we are December.
And it\'s too cold for me to swim along.
You\'ll know a woman\'s love one day.
Just leave me, just leave me
to grow old enough.