ONE HUNDRED SONGS

My love was unrequited, so I quit it.
How could I have not known this all along?
I never had the know-how to admit it,
So instead I wrote you one hundred songs.

Perhaps I have not fallen from high enough
To realize the difference from love and lust,
But I do know my words were never devoid of my heart,
Whether they relied on creation
Or were products of my dust.

And so I gave my fingers to a flowing pen,
Wrote on any parchment that I could ever find.
I saw dedication as too obvious,
So instead I lent to you the troubles of my mind.

I long for you to dance.
You can too sing along,
But I would rather you
Remember every word
To each of my one hundred other songs.

I never meant for a tear to shed
Nor lead your legs into my bed,
But if melody ever lent herself to grace,
You can rest assured,
To you I would ache to give my words.

And so I gave my fingers to a flowing pen,
Wrote on any parchment that I could ever find.
I saw dedication as too obvious,
So instead I lent to you the troubles of my mind.

I long for you to dance.
You can too sing along,
But I would rather you
Remember every word
To each of my one hundred other songs.

I hope the letters who stand beside each other
Discover purpose and can become the canon of lovers.
Even if they don’t
I have found great hope
In knowing my hand and my heart and my mind can entertain.

Read on my pain,
Know of my sorrow.
I may have loved,
Or perhaps only borrowed
From my heart
A means to an end
In the very same moment I allowed myself to begin.

I may have loved,
Or perhaps only borrowed
From my heart
A means to an end
In the very same moment I allowed myself to begin.

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