Sometimes

A new work. Not a refurbished ancient limerick.

Sometimes I like to pretend.
Pretend I'm already dead.
It's a depressing practice.
A darker tactic,
And it keeps me sane.

Just as pretty as when I met you,
On April 25, 1942.
Will you indulge in my sins,
While Garçon fiddles his violin?
I know you will.