The Curator of Love

In the museum of my life

You are the curator of love
The keeper of chocolate wrappers
And old newspapers

I am the
Forgettor of anniversaries
And loser of key rings

You hold our memories
While I clutch at
Hastily brought roses

Snatched probably from a funeral
With the dearly 
departed card still hanging


You remember all dates
That blue shirt, 
those awful red shoes

I sleep through movies, 
snoring even as Hugh Grant 
gallantly runs across the celluloid

You hold us together
My curator of love
I just hold

You

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