You don’t have the same body.
Ten years ago your jeans were smaller, your breasts firmer, your tummy flatter—void of your mothers’ watermarks.
I know this weighs on you.
Undesirable. Tired. Old.
You hold that you are those things.
And I look at other women, their bodies young, and they attract me. I want to lie with them.
You’d like to look like that again, don’t you?
I do not wish for it.
Your health is my concern.
That you feel sexy and comfortable in your skin is my hope.
I want you to know that you still have that power over men, that you still command my devotion.
I see your imperfections not as imperfect but rather as a testament to a life lived.
You are a fucking lioness. A ferocious matriarchal beast. The giver of everything with worth in my life.
I desire you.
Fuck me, I want you now more than when your jeans were smaller.