stop

We keep insisting that you’re fine. You pace forwards and backwards in the living room, thumbs in your back pockets. Formerly strong, confident, handsome features fade into your growing-grey complexion, and all we see are the fine lines and age spots that have settled in during our absence. No one in the room wants to say anything more to you or about you.  So we don’t. We sit, we wait. We hope you don’t speak again.

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"... all my lovers were there with me, all my past and futures."

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