You Work Hard On A Book And

After Sixty-one Years Together, She Simply Clutched My Hand And Exhaled.

I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Want.

I Don't Like Outlining, Because Books Are Organic Things. Sometimes A Book Doesn't Want To Be Written In A Certain Way.

Even When I Look Straight Into The Milky Blue Eyes I Can't Find Myself Any More. When Did I Stop Being Me?

But It All Zipped By. One Minute Marlena And I Were Up To Our Eyeballs, And The Next Thing We Knew The Kids Were Borrowing The Car And Fleeing The Coop For College. And Now, Here I Am. In My Nineties And Alone.