THE THOUGHT

I will not write a song for you,
For what’s a song made of but words.
Words inadequate words, never revealing what I feel;
Nor conveying my love so pure, so real.

I will not hold you in my arms,
I will not show you all my charms,
For if I hold you it will be known,
I am just another mortal of flesh, of bones.

So I’ll you still, in my thoughts till I die,
With my love for you so true,
For I know no other way of loving,
Than the way I feel for you.