Ink

Are you still cleaning, Abigail?

I don’t recall well.

Old age is bliss.

Memory

The first time I saw you,

You were cleaning.

The stars of winter dust

Had kissed your neck-lines.

You were swinging to ‘That’s my life’.

Ink

Ahh...have you grown old?

A mystery, ain’t it! You should.

Can you type, Abigail?

Memory

Pink were the letters marked for love.

Roses some dead, dried; withered a couple.

Our walk to that singular cafe

Kids running through hormones.

You had waxed calves.

Your’s, with love

Do you still love pastries?

Apps can find cafes now.

They’re commercial. They’re......clean.

I don’t recall well, Abigail!

Old age.