Dreaming of being loved,
I weep with joy to think when that joy will begin.
But none loves me, or seems to love me.
Not enough love is death and too much love is sin.
I wake up. I dress. I try to be polite.
I squint in the sun. I sing to myself at night.
Sometimes when you are loved, it’s hard to tell:
One told me loving me was a sickness and she was trying to get well.
I kept track of violins, of factories, of whispers in the hall.
I concluded I should be enthusiastic, but not beg love of all.
I didn’t ask for a lot. I had a little fun.
But I was willing to give. I was only looking for one.
Didn’t one love me? What did I have to do?
Was it that I looked, and didn’t find you?
Another loved me when I did not love her;
It was a pleasure when we were together.
It was a sweet friendship made in regions above.
But it wasn’t love.