Her perfume, her slinky dress, and her voice,
Draw me in, but less the things she says: she’s
Not a woman of many words, not for me,
But listens carefully when she wants to hear.
I can’t look that bad, I’ll knock on the door,
But I do; we’ll have more wine if you please.
No, even that won’t do – I'm hopeless, my days
Have become an evening, a last evening.
We’ll have to accept it gracefully, I am old,
And my hand looks like an immobile claw.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll steal new bodies,
But two people are the children of dreams.
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