He is, Leo.

The green grass on the wall will not last for long.
With time the vegetation will peel off. Brown, but yellow too.
It will reseed upon the pillow, a fresh lock of hair growing whilst you sleep.
Cutting and shaving of the hair forces strong and thick regrowth.

Is this how you feel for me?

The Ringmaster tries to tame the lion upon the grass, which, is now dead underfoot.
The lion will never be tamed, he is
Leo.

Maria does not care for letters,
She burns them with her one million and one candles.
Neither does he care for these words, his letters addressed to him written on the back of her producer's face.

Produce this:
A love that is everlasting, but never beginning.
I challenge you to lay on the grass, and read the stars and their signs to become the all knowing. I have told you much about myself,
the darkness (now),
her and her shaking hands,
the beached whale.

Be quiet, sticky fish with your slimy pupils.
Reseed your own love, Ringmaster.
Breathe on those candles, for hours, and forget.
Don't make the wish, even though your day of birth beckons.
I beg of you.