How could I ever talk to you about this treason my love...

this tremendous sin, this abomination of loyalty I reflect on silvers and glass?

How could you ever understand?

my love...

How could you ever relate and forgive this sickness...

In what words do I start and what sobs do I end? 

my love..

And how could I ever ask for a favor?

For I've been touching what I shouldn't my love

I've been offering my youth to the evil...

I've been wasting my flesh and my soul and my all, even love,

my love...

And you could never ever listen to what I say

hand me a bible and pray

swear that you would stay....

my love....

we could never ever walk along this way

why do you cry,

my love?

why this hysterical laughter 

what should I try,

my love?

what should I chase after?

never was you my love 

nor has it been another

never could,

my love

It used to be the sailors...

they traveled away met all the new lands, exotic bodies...

they justified themselves, stood in front of mirrors,

saying that the sin happened so far from home it almost didn't happen!

that's what they did my love

when they returned the wives would know..

they would give them poisonous looks my love

some would even offer poisonous bites...

my love

It was always the sailors the traitors...

my love that's not true

it's really the writers the remorses hunt

For there is no more acid touch than the touch of your pen when you come back home...

my love

It knows you've been using other pens all day..

other pens other papers wasting ink on numbers and reports

wasting!!

my love...

wasting your brilliance and your soul on numbers and reports...

wasting even your love!

my love...

why are you sighing my love?

did you think for a minute that there was a paramour besides you?

Besides my love?

A writer is always loyal to the muse my love,

yet such a castigation the disloyalty to his musings...

so take that ship 

my love,

the one we sketched in clouds

and sail away

my love

For it has always been the sailors

that carried back home some drips of satisfaction to sweeten the poison awaiting,

Never the writers,

my Love.