Growing old.

If I have to go blind,
let it be
from looking West
too often at sunset.

If I lose
my sense of smell,
and taste
grows muted by time,
may it be dulled
by the perfume
of fresh sheets
and the flavour
of mulled wine.

If I must go deaf
and hear neither
sound, nor tune
play violin
until my ears
cave in.

And if touch
should soften to
with the turning
of life’s full years
may I still find
our arms entwined
woven with love and
faded memories
of old tears.

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