I wish that I could sculpt your hands

To cup my face, in clay,

And hold me close when I'm alone

Because you could not stay.

But I'm a writer, not a sculptor...

 

Wish I could paint your sunlight-smile

To keep watch over me

When my sanity has slipped a while

And madness sets me free.

But I'm a writer, not a painter...

 

I wish that I could dance your name

And put your eyes to tune;

I wish your heart was mine to claim...

I wish I were the moon!

But you are a dream,

And I the dreamer.