So elegant and ostentatious, the speckled color of your coat.
How fancy you must feel, dappled in greens, reds, and oranges.
You try to cover the decay, the spots of brown, a
nd the poor, empty patchwork.
Stunning, certainly, yet showing signs of troubling times.
It’s not a worry, love.
The marks of toil are the more beautiful knowing your trials.
I imagine some small signs of the years are apparent on my own person.
The uncertainties, the emptiness, and a fractured mind are difficult to conceal at times.
Threadbare we must be to the ones who know us best.
Marked by the changes years inevitably leave as a courtesy.
If only we could trade stories, you and I,
though one would receive the poorer trade.
The tales told by an attractive sort are always the more fascinating than I have to share.
Ahh, such a moody girl to get a bit warmer for my visit.
Frankly, I was enjoying the solace of your downturned countenance.
I thought today we were commiserating,
unburdening one another of loneliness and fading dreams.
Please do not be ill, I meant no offense, looking only for a connection.
Certainly you do the same, I have seen it, drearily exorcising misery.
And, do not be offended, but you have been somewhat fussy today.
Thankfully you seem in good spirits now, treating our friends to a hospitable visit.
It’s been a good day keeping company with you to drive back the loneliness.