Lyrics

Red wine heaviness,
New Year’s resolutions
and past regrets,
and how to craft a paper plane
out of an invalid prescription
It’s late, I said, let’s go to sleep
The street lighting
was carving contours into the darkness,
my bra on the bedside table,
next to your reading glasses
and your current read,
Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast,
published posthumously
Do you know, you asked me,
what his last words to his wife were?
I nodded my head, of course I knew
I’m a writer too - remember?
Still,
I didn’t get it
when you kissed me on my cheek
and whispered
Goodnight, my kitten,
good night
Written by: Martin Bechler, Romy Hausmann
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