He sits with the paper, sometimes just
stares into space.
Where do you go to my dear?
Remembering maybe your youth
or more mundane jobs
to do about the house, sometime. Soon.
Days seem shorter in your latter years,
I watch you and my heart contracts
with my love of an older man.
I wear a dread carefully concealed,
a flickering flame
I fear will gutter to darken my life.
He turns and smiles,
I hide the tears,
gather him close,
kiss away the question in his eyes.

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byUnderYourSpell© 3 comments/ 1691 views/ 0 favorites

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