We left the joint,
800 metres to go.
I felt lofty,
Like a paramedic.
You couldn't walk anymore,
That means piggyback.
You said: "Leave me behind,
You can make it without me!"
I said: "No, a marine doesn't abandon anyone!
We're almost there
You and me walk slowly through the night".
When the drool softly grazed my ear,
When we reached our fort with the very last of our strength,
When you just barely made it to the bathroom, but not the loo
And then had something in your hair
And I knew why.
It's not what you sense,
Not only what you feel,
Not what you look for, full of longing,
Love is what you do.
We paid for the evening in our hardest currency,
A reason for everything, but an explanation for nothing
And now you're lying there and I pick food from your hair
I said: "Come on, drink this,
It will prevent the worst,
Maybe take the edge of the misery tomorrow morning just a bit"
I wiped everything away, I put bowls next to the bed
And you said: "I don't want you to see me like this,
I want to quietly die here,
And I want you to leave."
All window to tilt and I thought:
"Fair enough, not what you feel,
it is what you do"
In the doorframe, one last glance,
at you and at the picture of misery,
On the kitchen table was one line:
"Good morning, love of my life!"