She's afraid that the romance is dead.
Wonders why there are no flowers in the vases, no cute notes on the headboard.
When she gets home from work and
isn't greeted at the door with boxed chocolates neatly rowed, she thinks I don't love her.
No, but I say let the romance be dead.
I'd rather have the freedom to ****
in bed, or to laugh at her farts just the same,
or gather what I need to know about her from just the expression on her face.
She regrets having laughed at that first ****, but that's how she stole my heart.
She let me be me and didn't let romantic duty get in the way.
Anyway, I still am going to get her flowers.