Relying on the heart-strings of love's chord,

I stumble through concertos, symphonies;

I play my harp, though naught can I afford.

The wafting music flows with harmonies,

melodic, rhythmic, sinuous; it's full

of blissful love for you (and undertones

of sadness). Tears drip slowly in a pool

and slide away. I often wish my loans

would do the same, for nothing do I keep

besides my lonely melody, my harp,

and visions (close enough to make me weep)

of you, your visage, crystal clear and sharp.

Allusions to my debt are sad but real -

I offer nothing more than what I feel.