They don’t believe us

I don’t have answers to

“Surely you must have a picture of him?

Or an old t-shirt pf his?

His grandfather’s old watch?

Or a perfume he brought for your birthday?

A locket with a pendant that says something sweet?

Or perhaps a ring engraved?”

“No,” I tell them

“I don’t have any of these.”

They ask me, “Then what kind of love is that?”

They don’t believe me.

They don’t believe us.

It doesn’t bother me

Not in the least.

For I feel the warmth of your hand in mine

All the time

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