We were supposed together grow grey and old.
Each wrinkle we show, patio story gold.
A million stories kept and told.
But now I see new wrinkles and stories untold.
I could sit with another and find a new hand to hold.
This, today, might fit the mold.
Your hand it can never be, your hand somehow I must set free.
Remember this my sweet Ladybug, Michelle, this new hand you see
Will never hold the love I have for thee.
This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing her journey and yours while she was sick. I’m very sorry for your loss. Sounds like you both had a great and wonderful love. ❤️
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