Three Years Later

You would be discontented with everything. Any effort I make to please you would amount to nothing. Chocolates would not be as sweet as they were three years ago. Flowers would neither be as fragrant nor as vibrant as they were. All you would see is that everything is old.

Mall walks would just be tiring and window shopping would be frustrating. And when you used to feel safe just by holding my hand, all you'd feel is sweat. Food would still be fulfilling, but only because of its flavor and not of the person across the table. Movies would still be thrilling; better if without the hugs.

Conversations would be down to one fifteen-minute phone call a day when ten hours used to be so short. All the things that only I know that used to amuse you would just be one of those things that make a nerd. Words would not be as fascinating as they used to be. Facts, more so.

Money is still a problem, though. Much or little, it still couldn't bring joy. I still can't buy us happiness. After all, money is not the root of all.

When silent presence used to be enough, now there needs to be more. Where this more would come from, I don't know. Everything is just plain and old. Old things don't bring excitement. And even new light from an old lamp won't shine as bright. New things would always seem attractive.

I stop.