I seek not fame, nor fortune pursue, but love. And this is all there
is to me.
Shall I tell you? Were I to say how I truly feel, who knows what it would be?
You might remove me to some other place where, like as not, I could not be so real.
It's strange but true. Hear my song of love, hear between the lines some lyrics.

And yet I can but hope you understand my confusion when I ask,
"Why did you say that to me?" And, "Will it help us to pray?" No matter.
I must not fail in my consent to give all, and having retrieved little that ever I lent,
still I know not how to give. Not fully give. This, of me, you see.

And if I find a way to show the giving, not merely the intent, then to you I will.
I would say as much on my behalf, I am not half so angry as I have been feeling.
What will you say to that? I operate from some deep hurt I know so well,
like we know our friends, both well and not. This hurt has not a face nor gives a sign,
but who among us knows it not? Who among us does not pine? It is real.

I can feel it most of the time, dear, held back, restrained, it oft unmuted comes
lashing out, insane but loving. Forgive me, dear, for seeking the same in you.
It's crazy, I know. Can we mirror what we cannot see? I show you, you show me.
And all I wanted was for me and you to agree. Would I had not sung that song.

Oh, worry not, my love. I would not cry near half so much were I to work it out, somehow.
Yet knowing all and knowing this, I'm not led to disregard this now, but take it all to heart.
I feel blessed, it can be said, but wondering all along, "How can it be I am so sad, as well?"
I see you standing there amid what only seems. Surely you can see, surely you can tell.

Were you to listen to me cry, you might believe my tears but not my eyes, which lie.
Something holds me so well constrained. I am beholden to my eyes to dry themselves
without my fears impeding all my sight. Can it be I have lost all sense of reason?
Can it be I have lost all heart? Would it were.....Well, I think as likely not.

Were I to champion you instead I might not feel so dim a view about myself, just now.
But fairly spoken this is true: I cannot find it freely to say how much I love compassionately.
I cannot say it. But though so deeply hurting thus, I give all love away again, I know I must.
I trust myself in this resolve, to possess so little I cannot even flee, yet knowing this I know
as well, I cannot even see what makes me thus. I trust it, that is all.

Can it be right for me to go? I leave it up to you, for I myself am not afraid.
I know I have not done my utter best in this, knowing what I know about myself, that is.
There is better yet, and more to come, I feel. There is love within in all. I trust in this.
And for you, I trust you, yes, in a deeply sexual way that tells me all is held therein.

When I can see, but dimly now, I see within the outstretched arms and late night reveries
our passion not soon matched again for some time yet to come. And deep within, I
think is secretly kept some long and lovely feeling not yet released, but waiting, waiting,
for the moment to cease and the song to begin and love's desire is free to feel.

And looking thus within, I see myself as us, not two but one, somehow, and so fulfilled.
Yet seeing this, why do I say, "I am sexual to my deepest core, touch it not." But I hear me say it.
I look again, and there it is, affected not by my pronouncements,
but awaiting your tender caress. So much amiss. Awakened now but sleeping still.

And yet I say I would not have it so, that you should tell me I must go
when I myself am struggling not to flee. For deep within us lies a truth as yet unseen
but valid evermore - that two are one, and so it seems are three, sometimes.
Still, I have not found it within myself to seek so many in love. Perhaps you have.

Where can it be and how will we know it when we feel each other near, my love,
and no one else will do, least not for now. And no one else will care near half so much.
Nor feel so deeply both the loving and the fear. Were we to swear an oath, I would not say it so
that you should tell me how to live, and I should tell you how to go...about your flow,
giving as you give and taking back. Some things just work, that's all we know.

But when it seems it goes amok and falls upon some lost lament, evoked somehow,
some past transgress, some old forlorn, when it seems we've lost our drift and
excellent position we had to share, when it seems thus, I would make my stand and say,
once more and clear, "I would not love you half so much were you the same as me.
But again, there is the fear. And I would love you more were we to love agree."

Throw it all aside and look behind the veil at me. Can I hold you in my arms once more?
What does it matter how I feel, when only the doing seems real and the talk is lost.
Words are such fools, and I will talk no more about it. I live, instead, what I live for.
Such sweet sensations of lust and love. Why not admire them? I do, let me claim it.

Oh, what poverties of thought and philosophies fraught with oddities.
I am not quite so foolish that I deny a turn about, especially my turn about from
under to above you in our bed on fire, turning and burning, we kiss some more.
That's when it counts, when it's real. Why play this scene for any reason not desire?

Let us not talk, but love, make love. I may leave soon, for whatever reasons be,
yours or mine, but the sexual life need not stop. There, I've said a lot. Let's see,
Dearest, whether you agree, come kiss me and cum or not as you like.
Love, come kiss me and cum, in-joy me in-joying you in-joying me.