Some man wrote to me in paintings
In my books on certain numbers there they were
Left he not a personal sign I could identify
Of me in the sea saving a man he drew

I looked on men to know the one
For days I went on to be repaid in lovers!
In his paintings I eyed for clues
Foolish if I had missed his name in there

I have of this man a Secret kept locked
In his paintings then I drew his feelings
Caring, shy soft man made of love tender
Boo I  the rowdy men sick insulting lips

If friendship he desired, he could talk
But this is love, bashful which has kept him
Somewhere by his colors and brush
On the paper he draws our first chance meet.

I am afraid, years will pass without him
Still in my books will I meet him
The face to the painter in awe of me
The hand to the painter will I never kiss?

Close to my heart I touch his painting
Let it breathe to it the life I save
May be then will he emerge to me
Let it be a ghost but one I can feel

Tears have left trails on my cheek
Only if he could walk on them to me
Sent have I far loving looks of my eyes
Only if he could gaze back in the same route

So remains the mystery even now
Dies only the heart a slow death
Unquenched of his love so deep but hidden
Wear so I this longing ever so longingly

I too could write to him in paintings
In his books on certain numbers place them there
And leave all personal signs of heart break 
Of me in the sea drowning alone but I’ll draw