In your house by the television
we whispered love poems and sang
along to the stereo. This was
life. We would sit next to the
fireplace and hold hands for that
tiny bit of extra warmth. In your room
I would strum and you would sing
simple songs. We would lie in your
backyard and wave at aeroplanes
as they passed us by.

Oh, and we don't kiss,
that would be too cliché. Instead
we buy styrofoam cups and write our names
on them, then let them float away
on semi-frozen river water.

This is life.
Old wounds are nursed when you add salt
to new ones (just like this).