Vintage Beauty

Her breasts, warm beneath my hands,  
carry a history I've only glimpsed from a distance  
While each of fifty-two years left its mark.
I can almost feel the echoes of that first boy's touch,
a memory etched into her being.
Gazing at the roundness of her breasts  
I imagine them swaying for other men's delight.
 
In the ninth grade, she was already part of  
that distinguished 20% who were sexually active,  
but she was a dream out of reach for me.  
Now, after all the living she's done—  
three children, two marriages,  
one lost to choice, the other to fate—  
she's here, a vintage beauty bound in mystery.
 
And in this moment, with the  
weight of our separate journeys behind us,  
we find a new beginning.  
It's unexpectedly perfect.