One day you will say:
I was married.
To a man who could do anything.
He could draw, paint and make things.
He even made our bed and everything
was fixed.
He was kind.
He wouldn’t even argue properly.
There was no drinking, no mates
to lead him astray on Friday nights.
And no woman to delight him
more than me.
He taught me
that my body could be wonderful.
He worshipped at my fount and gladly
gave without taking in return.
We shared everything and learned
what life was.
He was mine.
And I thought I knew him so well.
Someone who had a mind about life
who knew what was important.
And who would fight a cause just
because it was right.
One day you will say:
I was married.
To a man who loved me simply
for who I am, and who never gave up.
But I had to bury his love and leave
everything behind.
He was kind.
He taught me and he was mine.
But inside he was a woman, like me.
And I cannot love a woman who fixes
everything, makes beds, worships me,
is not a man.
I have learned
the importance of a man who cannot
do everything, fix anything, has mates and
who will forget me Friday night, shun causes,
love me for what I am—and will allow me to be
the woman.
2012 © Andie Davidson
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