Maybe it’s the Puccini.
Maybe it’s the wine,
but I just don’t see
how this can end well.
We live separate lives
under one roof –
you in your chair,
lost in your viewing,
me in my library,
lost in my reading,
lost we are to lives of fiction,
lost we are to each other.
Night after night
we pass, you and I –
you to your couch
and I to our bed,
sometimes a kiss,
sometimes an “I love you,”
but really, what does that mean?
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