Perhaps one day you will tell me what you want,
Perhaps you would not want to say it anyway,
Perhaps you will pass a hand through my hair,
Perhaps you may not think of me waiting for it.
Perhaps, this being so, it would be better,
Missing our meeting by a whisker,
Perhaps you will not pamper me as I want,
Perhaps we don't know our own hearts
But I'm not certain, that you could give responses.
I live only for repeated whispers,
Of deceit of the soul and hunger of the senses.
Perhaps it's cruel, perhaps, perhaps.
If you give nothing, then, I will give you nothing
In this to-ing and fro-ing that we keep up,
And if our real longings are contrived,
Perhaps I might not know who you are but I know who I am.
If you give nothing, then, I will give you nothing
In this to-ing and fro-ing that we keep up,
And if our real longings are contrived,
Perhaps I might not know who you are but I know who I am.