Untitled #4

In retrospect she was surprised at how easily, and with so little fanfare,
her romantic life had died.
It reminded her of taking things to Goodwill,
here one day, but gone the next.
Not sure why she had sent it packing, but in full knowledge
she wasn’t using it anymore.

It was a slow, methodical death — of hours, days,
weeks, months, and finally, yes, years — of neglect.
Between too busy, not feeling it, and no thank you,
I’m not up to it anymore.

Perhaps it was resentment, that this was another
woman’s job (didn’t she have enough?) — keep him interested
and satisfied — here are the steps.  It became ONE MORE THING
She was tired of one more thing.

She had grown tired of painful underwear, so
Victoria was out replaced by Fruit of the Loom — granny sized.
Push-up bras, demi cups, and designs were abandoned to
streamline her morning process, given up to a sea of
flesh tone

She discovered, quite by accident, how easy it was
to evade — to bed early, to bed late, but never at the same time —
after all there was always something that needed done
for the kids, the house, or the job.

Yet, it was the nagging feeling that her husband had become
her sibling, it made sleeping together uncomfortable.
She was disturbed by what should happen if his passion arose.
It didn’t.

Because by the time she discovered she really did want to be
romanced,
he’d stopped.

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