They could offer me that deal
that we’re discussing now
and I could sell a million records
but I don’t know if I care, either way
enough to sign or sing
the words would be but bitter
twists of fate on my tongue
if I could not share it with you
success or failure the same hollow void
meaningless without your presence
I cannot sing some of the songs
without tears and cracked voice
the most profound sense of grief and loss
driving words and music, an echo
of the encompassing ache pervading
each moment of existence
They could take me on tour
when such things become possible again
to open shows in faraway cities
piggybacking on their fame
I would hide away in cheap hotels
and performing for thousands
could only drive the emptiness deeper
amidst the solitude of the throng
I would rather make
a record just for you
than sell a million albums
or play to a gathered assemblage
consuming me like a commodity
a record for you of different songs
inspired by your grace and sung
so soft to your ears alone

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