If I were nothing but a painter's whim,
You would be the brush that caresses me,
The bristles which give shape to ev'ry limb
And which makes me what you want me to be.
If I were merely notes scratched on paper,
Would my melody be pleasing to you?
If not now, then will it be so later?
Will I ever come to grow on you too?
But no amount of "if"s can change the truth
That I am only a pitiful man
Whose value is found only in his youth
And cannot think how ev'ryone else can;
Despite that, this man dares to love you still
And hopes, forevermore, you also will.