I love to hear you sing, rich dark and clear.
At best there’s tattered velvet in my voice
that suits my verse. If I could have the choice
I’d rather sing. Each has their own career;
we work with what we have. When I’ve a cold,
I work around it, slowly breathe, don’t strain.
The catches in my throat are not a pain
they are expressive. You though cannot hold
those perfect notes, if some quite minor bug
floods through your throat. And I will stay away
and save affection for another day.
Although I’m fond of you, we will not hug.
Or kiss. I’ll walk away and not infect
the strong pure voice you’ve worked hard to perfect.