You must have grown, Lenore, by now into a golden-headed lady
With moonlit skin and freckled nose and supple lips of cherry.
How old were we? Thirteen? Fourteen? Though young, we were never too merry.
But you were mine, Lenore, and I admit I wasn’t ready
To receive and give so pure a love but so filled with melancholy.
Lenore, with my coldness you must have been utterly lonely.
But now, Lenore, I love you back. Or at least, I love your memory.
For you were the only one who wished the very best for me.
Both of our souls, Lenore, were dark; but our hearts remained so pure and true.
And death, sweet death, was our sole wish–an eternal rest long due.
You loved me enough to wish me death. I could not do the same for you.
For I felt little for you then, but now dear, I feel anew–
Lenore, I feel to seek and love you is the only right thing to do.
But however you are right now, Lenore dear, I do not know.
Have you changed so much or have you remained my Lenore? I have no clue.
All I know is that I must go back in time to love you so.
Lenore, I remember my lovers when all is good and oh-so bright;
But when all is dark, Lenore, you are the only one who’s right.
Because now that I have grown, Lenore, I see past the world’s blinding light
You’re my future and my past, Lenore, the only thing in sight.