I lose count of the words, were whispers
the only way but too soft or too vain,
then could I hold back and hurt
in ways speaking volumes you never knew,
I would. And stare into mirrors looking
for the words of a woman I wish I were.
But this too moves me on to her
and all she's gained
for trying, a thousand pieces sometimes well put.
Those I'll claim
for all the worth,
asking not but what is surely selfish.
But I'll bear the shame
for the art of a realist,
for the natural wish that she never be lost,
that you never forget her name.