I cannot dance
But I've danced
I cannot sing
But I sang
I cannot play
But I've played
I cannot write
But I wrote

To be in love with a man in *******--
Is to shatter your heart a thousand times.
For my love is held in her fondness.
What will become of us and our love crimes?

Are we ungodly with no virtue left?
Have we no soul left in our mortal shells?
Have we lost our halos or was it theft?
Will we ever hear heaven’s freedom bells?

You are bound, tied by hand, and feet to her.
You are held captive by left hand and ring.
You are covered in love, you reek of myrrh.
For her, you will sing, to me, you will cling.

How can one so faithful fail another?
If not me, nor her, then who? My lover.

Places left forgotten
And memories still swaying
There's no place left to say
How it could've been this way.

Places left intact
To say how I should react
It dismembers itself
And displaces the rest

An empty swallow
A withering remembrance
A place left to show
Where nothing else will grow

If I call upon myself
What do I let summon?
Nothing but the pain it brings
Nothing but the place that sings

Sometimes I wish there’ll be someone stay on my frequency
While everyone else keeps changing channels and pass by mine
Where we could sing harmoniously in the same genre
And start to sway as my feet listen to the beat as if it was a great dancer.

I will sing my monody with pride
No matter if you happen to cry

When showtime comes the curtain will rise
You'll prepare your face with cold blue eyes
Together you're here
With the quiet and queer
And then you'll sing your own demise

Could I tell you the ways in which you free me?
Or sing to you a song of gold?
Could a needle stitch a quilt of sorrow?
Or keep our love from growing old?

I've been singing high up in my head
not aware I have a choice
not knowing in my heart of hearts
I've got a bigger voice -
that breath by breath, beat by beat
I'm able to release
in time with my heart's moving
the next movement of my suite

That as I breath in deeper still
using my whole body
my body becomes one instrument
growing in capacity
to compose something of my own
beyond my quiet moans
the music of my origin
and of scores I don't yet know