Bookends

I cried when we made love—the first and last times.  I can remember our first—the way you tasted and moved, the feel of your hair, the smell of your skin.  Tears of joy traveled down my cheeks afterwards, a quiet testament to my feelings for you. 

I don’t like to think about our last; intuitively I knew it was our finale with no hope of a curtain call, and that’s why I worked so hard to make it special.  Remarkable, isn’t it, how flexible we become when trying to meet someone’s needs?  In the candlelight draped in green satin my soul pleaded for an acknowledgment.

One didn’t come.

I find myself now, years later, thinking that my willingness to please and openness can never compete with what the others offer—beauty, sophistication, financial security.  I was, and remain, a simple woman—simplicity holds no charm for a world which demands glitz and glamour.

I am sorry I was not, nor ever will be, enough the way that I am.