Tell me about summer, about those long absences
Tell me about the nothing that makes everything rancid
About your practiced fingers grazing my childhood
When everything in me wavers and nothing dances
Tell me about our vices hidden by the pretty things
About the summer solstices and the weight of roses
About the Garnier opera filled to capacity
About your depraved English shattering all your poses
But tell me
Tell me softly
That you don't really believe it
Tell me again that we haven't reached that point
Tell me about the cadent houses
About the lengths of your nights
Tell me about your fears
About your forbidden movies
About this driving rain washing out Paris
About this happy idiot chauffeuring your taxi
Tell me about nonsense
Describe me your passageways
About our nettle soups
When our moons go dark
Talk to me like never before
Like the last intruder
Like that anxious queer
Educated in the closet
But tell me
Tell me softly
That you don't really believe it
Tell me again that we haven't reached that point
Tell me about those flights
Headed to Barcelona
Talk to me like a dog
That is beaten and abandoned
About your entrenched hatred
While I forgive you
About Glenn Close that you love
And whom I couldn't care less about
Tell me about your arms
As long as streamers
Our banners from Poitou
About your womanly disgusts
Our thousands of shivers
At the rise of wind-blown sands
The drained coffees
In your homemade mugs
But tell me
Tell me softly
That you don't really believe it
Tell me again that we haven't reached that point
Tell me about how you carry on
No matter what may come
About your one-night dresses
That weigh as much as stones
Tell me about the evenings
The jealous devil's ball
Sorting out the invites
From Facebook, oh who's who
Tell me about the troubles
Of owning a large apartment
About the shroud and the mourning
In your gypsy camp
Tell me without faltering
About your hostile consent
To my trivial presence
In your docile decor
But tell me
Tell me softly
That you don't really believe it
Tell me again that we haven't reached that point
Tell me about the cynics
And about our lives as lovers
About our Iberian feet
Trapped in cement
About your critical reports
That dream us as great ones
Walking on the exotic
The slabs of spring
But tell me
Tell me softly
That you don't really believe it
Tell me again that we haven't reached that point