His eyes are full of life but they fuller they are, the further you are from hearing the truth.
The truth only comes late at night in an oyster bar on a rainy cobblestoned street. The one on top of the hill.
His eyes are now glassy and his lips are loose.
Here come the confessions, the confessions of a life filled with chapters of illicit love. (I suppose that's just called love.)
A prince who never became king. They let him keep his sword but not his crown. They let him keep his heart when he lost his mind.
Out on the street he stumbles, not an umbrella in sight.
You can follow him and share a night. The love comes easy when it feels right.
Either way, you'll never hear from him again. But he'll always carry you in his eyes.
Now do you understand?