I have your friendship and I'm satisfied,
Meeting or speaking almost every day.
What's there to wish for that could be implied?
It seems like love, just not the corporal way.

A silent passion full of gentle giving
By looking in your eyes, hearing your voice
By cheating and beguiling and deceiving
That I'd not wish for more had I the choice.

It's just mirth in the ideal illusion
That I sustain what I am bearing now.
This cheerfulness is not but confusion
Emerging hither from my long-sworn vow.

I have it all, but grimly I have none.
Your lips and eyes and voice can't be undone.