Younger men, much younger, wash up against me.
Sometimes desperation, sometimes belt notching.
It's not a matter of age or experience or skill.

It's the unearned arrogance and presumption that puts me off
And it has nothing to do with chronological age, either.

I don't want to be with a tally **' of any sort. And it's not about what he can buy with money. Thoughtful generosity is quite another thing, though.

I want...I want...someone who's been hurt, who's experienced loss and reeled under it, lived through it and who has survived and thrived.
Who is both softer and harder for it. Who has compassion for and expectations of me. Who can be harsh and tender with me.

And me no less for him.

//
What is physical attractiveness, anyway?
It's not conventional, plastic perfection. You cling to that fallacy, you lose.
Sometimes, I am toppled into vulnerability by the shape of his mouth, the feel of his cheek when I touch, the way light or emotion moves in his eyes, his voice when he is on the phone for work, the way hair lies on his arm, how he is in conversation with a child or pet, the strength of his legs, personal scent, the unguarded expression caught. The way he hums.

An unexpected sweetness that moves me.

Grace