Valentine’s Day Massacre

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Our brief brief love went thud thud thud
My heart, your tool, my blood,
Your tall and heavy Slavic frame,
The high romantic game;
The years alone, the moment ripe,
The nightly talks on Skype;
The Stansted meeting, winter skies,
Your most unusual eyes;
The tie you wore to suit my taste,
How courtship goes to waste!
The language books that I perused:
Moj dragi, no longer used,
And you were quite a polyglot
Which I considered hot.
I saw with greatest clarity
The age disparity.
You, younger, still in middle age,
Myself mature and sage.
Your furry skin is what I’ll miss,
The slow lick of your kiss,
Your big hands twice the size of mine;
I tell myself I’m fine
Your presence slips into my past,
Not something that could last,
And certainly it’s no one’s fault,
This juddering, thudding halt.

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