Love's Loss

every ounce that is me, in my purity;

new wine in new wine skins,

hoping you'd value fine wine, spilled at your feet.

Fool that I am, it hadn't dawned on me,

that you are a man who prefers his libation made of hops and barley.

The years of toiling in the vineyard, pressing grapes -

if only you had tasted the true essence of my being;

love's nectar, the bouquet enticing you to sip,

unable to commit your heart fully.

Fine wine requires equally love, and patience,

and is best after many years, which is what I gave to you.

Twenty plus years and four kids later, when I look at them,

I am looking at you; the part of you in them is loved,

for you, I now feel ambivalence.

No longer do I vacillate or speculate,

on what was or could have been;

only reflection upon what is-

fait accompli.