#424: My Love, How I Have Failed You

My love, how I have failed you. I have yet
to book that flight to Rome, to take your hand
and lead you to the Trevi, Neptune's band
of demigod attendants soaking wet
with faux seaspray. I have not yet arranged
that long-promised Lake Country holiday,
those fields of daffodils where poets play;
nor London, Paris, Venice. I'm unchanged
in my intentions, dear, though how I ought
to make my words come true, I cannot tell.
Back then we lived on romance, without kids
or mortgages or day jobs. Just as well,
or else we'd not have promised what we did.

But one of these days, Love, I'll get you there.
You married me--after all, fair is fair.