How It Must Be
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I still think of you as being chained to him. Because of that, I know that, though you Came to me, and clung, dependent it had Seemed, you couldn’t give yourself to me, And, look, now thirty years have passed. Your kids and mine, who’d played together, As we pantomimed a love which never Could come into being, circle us with Their own kids, and we, so old and still Not lovers, dote on them, not on each Other. We pass in the park and smile. Neither of us tries to speak. You still Are chained to him. © Lawrence Beck 2023
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