the peach walls

it was obvious
to anyone with eyes
that they were a couple,
in love, still,
the years no longer years,
but a swift blend
of time gone by,
with no markings left
to show where or when
things
started or might come
to an end.
he stroked a soft
grey mouse of a
moustache lying above his
lips, once black
as oil you imagined, and her taller
now than him.
had it always been this way?
his marine
hard body, now soft,
and frail, as age will do,
as injury and disease
will conquer all
that we view.
and she, in command,
holding out a scarf,
peach color,
no longer a reluctant
chief,
but kind and compassionate,
letting him
have his say, letting his
confused words
be spoken
before her decisions
were made. we want to go
with this color
she said.
and that was it.