I could make you happy;
I swear-
more than those searching eyes ever will.
These celluloid pictures can tell a tale of it,
though you were not there
when I took them;
your smile cannot lie to me
while we dream of a Velvet Era.

And, although my finger tips never touched your lips,
I would believe the perversion of your songs
were but mere diversion,
for anything you said in the twilight of summer
crazed my heart, which made of me...a lingering, finer version.

Still, I live in fear,
that though you had been there,
I would have been amiss;
for the foundations of our immortality
ever rested upon tears,
which parted with dew,
renewed upon nightfall,
lived through regrets,
and traversed me with spears.

And yet,
for now, I know I wasted
the life our dreams had forged:
not knowing whether I'll ever speak of this again,
I cut, and whimper, and wait.
Here’s to hoping that tomorrow you will think of me;
that while you sleep, you whisper my name,
that someday, you'll come to get me;
that you won't leave me astray:
so the velvet can be indulged in,
so the cape can cover us,
so our faces face each other,
'till Death can conquer Us.