Growing Old

If am I to throb for your love no more: What else, constant in time remains? Time... which with its touch does modify... I feel, as if I live without my being— the one I met with meeting you has departed from me, and with you, it has gone... I turn to music, books, films, in hope that I may catch a glimpse of how we used to feel, of how we used to be, in their protagonists: they are performers— We were real! Just glimpses of heaven, ephemeral... like days vanishing in the darkness of nights, where the twinkling stars are beckoning at memories— recalling fragments of beatitude... As I grow old, and weary, I fear I may lose you again, my dearest! This time, —forever, along with my memory...