All I was doing was waiting for dinner on a winter’s Sunday.
You walked in the room, we dined together, and you left holding my heart.
Thus, speaking of us is a matter of fortune, even the partings.
Still, we’ve grown old together within these years of absence and silence.
I love you in my way each day, even when I rale at the alone.  

We’re proof that some things are important, but others quite ephemeral:
Perfumes become confused with time, while hairstyles and fashions are passing.
The sole fully memorable kiss is the very last time lips met.
A passing woman told me, The perfect breasts are the ones you hold now.
Even the shape of a hand means less than then, no matter how tender.  

The thing that sticks with me, even in mid-night, is personal at heart:
I will recall your eyes as they said my name far beyond eternity.