It’s been 62 days, 3 hours, and 57 minutes since I’ve made love to you.
You say you’re not in the mood anymore, but we both know the truth.
You haven’t been the same since prostate cancer. The pump, the pills, the implant didn’t work.
At night, my old lovers crop up in dreams, taunting me with what I’m missing: lustful gazes across a table, sweaty hands on a noontime walk, swaying hips to the latest music, and deep kisses lingering long into the night.
It’s been 63 days, 3 hours, and 57 minutes since I’ve made love to you.
You say you’re not in the mood anymore, but we both know the truth.
You haven’t been the same since prostate cancer. The pump, the pills, the implant didn’t work.
At night, my old lovers crop up in dreams, taunting me with what I’m missing: lustful gazes across a table, sweaty hands on a noontime walk, swaying hips to the latest music, and deep kisses lingering long into the night.
It’s been 63 days, 3 hours, and 57 minutes since I’ve made love to you.
