I will caress your back while you sleep, my love. I will run my hands through your hair, and touch the parts that will soon be bald. We are getting older and this love we have feels like a last fling before death. We don’t know how much longer we have. It could be a minute or fifty years. It could end now. It could end tomorrow.
Love at fifty is a melancholic thing. We can make love, but the positions we enjoy will someday be impossible due to arthritis, or aching knees or a bad back. We can touch each other, but even now it hurts to sleep in your arms; my neck gets stuck, or my shoulders hurt.
We can still travel, but we take our aches and pains with us. We need more time to recuperate. We spend more time sleeping. We have careers in full steam that need attention when we could be simply together. The motor is running in the back of our heads as we look into each other’s eyes. (“I love you, but did I send that email to my colleague or not?” The eyes dart away for a minute, and then go back to the moment at hand.) Living fully is hard, being one hundred per cent “present” seems impossible.
Love at fifty is a melancholic thing. But I love you, my Far-Away-Boy. I wouldn’t want to change a thing.