If I were a painter,
I’d paint you a thousand portraits.
Then you’d witness my regard,
stretched right out on the canvas.

If I were a pianist,
I’d put my fingers to the keys,
and ease a soft sweet melody,
that sounded like your name.

If I were a poet,
my pen would scratch the paper.
My affection would be clear to you,
the words so full of feeling.

But I’m afraid I’m not a poet.
Nor a pianist, nor a painter.
So, you’ll have to take my best attempts,
and know they’re done with care.

I may not be a painter.
Nor a pianist, nor a poet.
But I think that I can live with that,
all I want to be is yours.