At least there’s a hand to hold.
That’s what I thought.
Holding his hand was comfort enough.
Imagine hitting 100 and having no hand to hold when you breathed your last.
The sad part is that this is the 3rd hand I’m holding.
The third pair of lips I’ve kissed.
But my Sometime Summer is no more.
Every season draws to a close.
And now it’s my turn to have endless chats under the sycamore tree by myself until I breathe no more.