The sky spits rain as though it's April. You are out on a morning jog. I stay dry in the bed, writing poems. England is sea green, forest green, but I can feel the ceiling. You don't understand me. We're only supposed to love each other, not agree all the time or promise too much. Neither must prevent the other from their calling - which is easy to state and hard to live by. We're both only human, and the topic of Love is wearing. I can never reach the bottom with my feet. Will we tolerate each other's shortfalls, year after year after year? Who'll give in first when it comes to children?
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