Paul Mccartney 🪲 #31

1982

You were happy in your marriage, although Paul, your husband, was the devil himself; he was a bad-tempered man, and you complained that he was never tender
For more than three years now, you have been receiving letters from a stranger, letters full of poetry that have brought back your joy
Every afternoon when Paul returns, tired from his studies, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye; he says nothing because he knows everything, and you are just like that, happy regardless
Because he is the one writing the verses; he is your lover, your secret love