We won’t hold hands anymore.
We won’t swim in the Atlantic again.
We won’t have the children we dreamed of
We won’t kiss eatch other anymore.
We won’t sleep in the same bed anymore.
We won’t take that trip we planned.
We won’t live in a house together.
We won’t listen to Monteverdi anymore.
We won’t take anymore bath together.
No more ‘Bloody Mary’ with olives.
No more flowers from you.
No more TV dinners.
When I am 85 and you are 92, will you still send me a present occasionally to show me you still remember me ?
And I will return to my husband and out dog Cesar and dry their tears.
Last night I had a dream. I dreamt I was a flower and you were a snake and I belong to you and you belong to me.