December to May

Standard

Some folk are burdens in burdensome lives, like horrible husbands, or horrid ex-wives. The baggage we carry’s a bugger to bear – a divorce over here, and some kids over there. Not a bugger for us, but perhaps for The One; for he or she has to take all this stuff on.
There’s a plague on two houses, a plague they call love, or obsession or passion, for ay – there’s the rub.
To sleep, now perchance to remember the start, for I’ll dream myself back to his December heart.
And then when I’m woke, I shall hope to forget, for remembering’s just a tad painful as yet. Because when I wake, the old me must just go; for the truth is: it’s him or nobody, y’know?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s