What shall we do, my dear old love,
with nothing to distract us from each other?
Suddenly shy, no, frightened – not by the dark,
but by an intimacy we’re unaccustomed to.
I imagine we watch the fire spark and flame,
candles flicker in the draft,
sip from a bottle of leftover wine.
And as the otherwise dark enfolds us –
we enfold each other,
our murmurings lapse into silence.
We tire, not from ennui,
but this intensity.
How strange how strange the so-familiar
has become.
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