I learned my trade in candlelight,

In whispered deals and stolen glances,

I sang for coin, for lust, for lies,

For men who paid to call them chances.

My words have led a hundred hearts

To places faith was meant to flee—

And then you listened, noble lord,

As if my songs were meant to be.

You wear your honor like a crown

You never doubt or take apart,

While I have built my living off

The careful breaking of a heart.

They praise your name in chapel halls,

They toast to mine in rooms of shame—

You rise with vows upon your lips,

I leave before they learn my name.

I tried to be your quiet sin,

To draw you down where I have been,

But every time I reached for you

My hands forgot what cruel means.

I couldn’t teach you how to fall,

Or bruise the truths you still believe—

You’re far too pure, my gentle lord,

For someone bent and bruised like me.

I’ve turned devotion into ash

With half a smile, a crooked phrase,

I’ve watched good men forget their gods

For nights that barely earned their praise.

But you just thanked me for my song,

And asked me where my verses start—

As if I hadn’t bled them out

From every fracture in my heart.

You said my voice held honest things,

That pain could still be something kind—

If I had sense, I’d fled that room

And left that dangerous thought behind.

But gods forgive my foolish hope,

I stayed and let it deepen slow,

And learned how longing feels when love

Is something you can never own.

I tried to be your quiet sin,

Your secret fault, your mortal slip,

But you only ever looked at me

With mercy soft upon your lips.

I couldn’t make you small or stained,

Or teach you how to take and leave—

You’re far too pure, my gentle lord,

For someone bent and bruised like me.

So keep your hands from touching mine,

Keep walking where the light is fair,

Rule gently, love a worthier soul,

Let cleaner men stand by your chair.

I’ll sing in rooms that fit my kind,

Where love is brief and truth is thin,

I’ll be the tale they warn about,

Not the grace you’re living in.

But if one night you hear my name

Drift through some tavern, worn and slow,

Know every rhyme was shaped by you,

By what I could not overthrow.

I loved you not with hunger’s greed,

But something closer to belief—

A song I’ll never dare to claim,

Too pure for hands like mine to keep.