It’s likely I’ll love you more than
any other admirer has.
Does it scare or make you refrain?
or serenade you for my hand?

I belt it out with fierce belief,
like a girl before any grief.
I will not sigh when our song ends,
the echoes sing after you leave.

If I wrote of your love’s return,
I am afraid no sheet would turn.
Instead I pick and poke until
the lyrics our love built up burn.

Even if you kept loving me,
I would write you my enemy.
It turns out I’m stuck dancing to
a buried heartache melody.