We aren’t what we used to be. But I don’t know what we’re becoming.

We are like once-upon-a-time lovers who are now roommates and managers of children who we see with separate eyes.

We flirt, but we are too tired at 9 pm to do anything except pass out from exhaustion and old age.

I’m not giving up, but I’m trying not to hold on to what we were so that resentment can’t build the way I know it can.

We are still beautiful. We are still here. We are still together.

Still…

Let’s get through this part and make love again, soon.