Our love was a harpsichord;
sweetest songs upon
sinful symphonics,
danced upon by skilled hands
and hungry hearts.

Our love was a harpsichord,
bringing contentment and
melting bitter doubt,
the coldest goodbyes,
until the final hit.

Our love was a harpsichord.
No matter how I may try,
the keys turn to stone
and the notes bitter.
Extinct, it had become.

Our love was a harpsichord,
sorrowful beauty until
one conductor, giving up,
submerged our songs
into a sea of loneliness.

Our love was a harpsichord.
Now it is but ruins.