You sleep like a kid with one hand stuck fast to the side of your face.   Backside in the air, mouth half open, but still filled with grace.   And you seem so happy as your skin turns the colour of a violet-golden sky.   It cuts me up when we fight and go to bed facing opposite sides.      You're like gasoline. You're like the willow tree. You're like a split-screen.   But you're the green in me.      And you smoke when you're hurt or bored or out with friends, but I don't mind.   Who cares if the big seat comes? We're young, we're having some lovely times.   You frown as the clouds bring you down, drop you to your knees and scream "Oh, my God".   But you really shouldn't bother, there's bigger things going on you little sod.      You're like gasoline. You're like the willow tree. You're like a split-screen.   But you're the green in me.      You're like gasoline. You're like the willow tree. You're like a split-screen.   But you're the green in me.