Oh the things I'd do –
the things I've done for a love.
Frequent trips one, two, three.
You see, we met so very strangely and brief
But it was easy.
He liked my words; and me? His story.
He was twenty three and I, seventeen.
And boy was he in love with me.
Oh yes, in love with me. He'd gone from time to time;
embarrassed and ashamed –
lover boy of mine.
It didn't make sense to him, you see.
He was twenty three and I, nobody.
Come day three,
he had the world, and me? My words.
Oh and how these lines came out my mind so eloquently.
With more than delight, he wallowed in them
oh, glory.
And I? His evergreen.
Hither day two,
he had the world, and me? My mind.
Oh and how it was a melody intertwined with thoughts
– and him.
I think and I thought, I think and I thought of him.
And how he adored my thoughts, and how I'd write
of him.
But no I, no, not this time.
And then one,
he had the world,
my words,
my lines,
my thoughts,
my mind.
And I? A story.
But in my lover's story, there was no he
and I.
Three, two, one
he was twenty four and I, a fool once more.
