(no subject)

( Stolen from Shmoogin )

And after this, sleep. I promise.

When I have sung my songs to you,
I’ll sing no more.
‘Twould be a sacrilege to sing
At another door.
We’ve worked so hard to hold our dreams,
Just you and I.
I could not share them all again—
I’d rather die
With just the thought that I had loved so
    well, so true,
That I could never sing again,
Except to you.

     -Ernest Charles