There is no love song for us, my dear
No bouquet of red roses, no
Empty champagne flutes,
No glorious consummation.
The moon doesn’t glow softly over our skin,
The stars don’t dance in the eyes of our beholders.
Sweet nothings don’t fill our ears as lover’s
Hands caress our prone bodies.
We’re rather ugly, really.
There’s no promise of forever
No sighs for the slippage of time
No whispers of remember when –
We’ll grow decrepit together
And that’s about it.