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I remember the kisses with the most regret. His mouth moving over mine with the surety of possession. Gentle kisses that teased and promised. Fierce clashes of tongue and teeth filled with need and hunger. Kisses when we stood, wrapped in each others’ arms, his superior height bending my body to a familiar angle, his hands supporting me as his mouth plundered. Horizontal kisses, mouths locked, his weight pressing me down to the softness of our bed, hands roaming.
There are no more kisses. That way of love is a closed door to us both. We cannot settle for pale imitation so we remember, regret and move on.
We have found a new way to love. It was not what I thought love was before, but now it is my gift to him, and his gift to me.
I prepare for him carefully. How I look is very important and I spend an hour or two making sure I am perfect for him. I am not getting any younger, my skin doesn’t glow even with creams and potions, nor does it yet wrinkle or sag. A bra is no longer an irrelevant piece of lace to decorate pert breasts, but a carefully constructed tool in the armoury. With a twinkle of love and warmth in his eyes he says it doesn’t matter. What does he know? Time will not ravage him.