Old Story

In a moment in my golden years

I wonder if I’m an onion, each year

representing another layer of love peeled away,

flesh flayed, torn from the core.

Oh the tears I’ve shed, chopping at time,

thin-skinned and thick skulled.

Funny I’m appalled now to find

I’m not half the catch I was,

find my senescent self assuming stupidly

I play the role of the young romantic.

When I date I’ll dodderingly wonder

why love can’t be the same as it was.

Then I recall I’m still single,

so it’s exactly as it was.

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