I'm told it is best to write what you know,
waving a sparkler in warm summer air,
telling stories to fireflies blinking by.
And while I sometimes wish it was love I could weave
in silver streams of smoke and flickering light,
it turns out, when I spell it in the sky,
that what I know is music.
And if I know love at all
it is only because you give me reason to sing.
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