My heart, it does not ache
with every love I do take.
Your voice over-shadows
my lame. I repose.
Despite your treachery
of our love contrary;
living our unholy masquerade,
afraid and betrayed.
Your voice does linger still;
it is but your will.
With every breath I do speak,
I am lame and always weak.
I speak from my ever sorrow:
“Will you still love me tomorrow?”