I am counting off my hands
the men I cannot love,
but hold forever in gold plated frames.

My sirens call an unheard song,
that puts these men to sleep at dawn;
they dream in colors of the fall.

Before each night,
I count their eyes to see with vivid light
a woman cursed with sight.

But Love is blind,
for we cannot know exactly what we're living for
or who it is we're dieing for.

And Love is a bird
with black, dusty wings that tauntingly rap my window;
Poe's raven calling "Never more."