slowly,
perhaps,
i wind down this acronymic, off-kilter, smitten
colour cacophony.
everyone gets bitten by the love bug at some point.
make mine (a goodly amount more than)
a double (please). on this day, my birthday, i’m
restless, unmotivated, exhausted; seemingly just plain old.
knowing now that i am approaching
elderly, how much love can be left? how many years? it
turns out a lot? how much is too much? i look the other way.
