December to May


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?

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