Intolerance of Old Love

I mutter to myself, quite happily
Old women do that, he says
You’re disturbing me..

He hears less and less
And perturbingly
The volume of the TV rises
Provoking me.

We disconnect and splinter thus
The tolerance of young love, now lost to us.
Until in the midst of banal routine
Kind acts transport to us to what has always been,

Impossible to fathom this you and I
Locked together until we die

Great love surviving gradual decline.