"How come love can be so tough, and what can I do to get really good at it?" I asked myself that cold misty morning, just after he'd left my house. He murmured something about how he had to get home, how he had to be there to celebrate his wife's 30th birthday with a breakfast the kids had so eagerly planned.
"Love is so tough," I said to myself again as I splashed warm water on my face, again and again.
For I thought I could keep him here in my bed.
"You're so sensuous," he had said.
"The Queen of Sensuality," he moaned in the late midnight hour.
It wasn't enough.
This good stuff.
This good good loving of mine.
For he had a woman at home he had to get to and take care of.
Her sensuality could not have been above my own.
For if I was the Queen, what was she?
I splashed more warm water over my face. It trickled down my neck, my arms, and down my chest.
She was obviously someone who knew how to love.
She was someone better than me.
(by LadyLee from my Women of Color Writing Workshop; writing prompts "Queen of Sensuality" and "How Come love can be so tough, and what can I do to get really good at it?")
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