56

A frequent lover she had been, not the best she was so often told, but every touch and open kiss was from her heart, no empty dreams promised, no meaningless pillow talk.

A lover to be she had so often tried, passions, obsession at her pulsing core, her heart on her sleeve open bore, the verbal scars of passing ships on dark and drunken nights.

A true lover she had been, misunderstood by the shallow voyeurs, for the crime of sincerity is now her only guilty plea, and having been punished for love and tenderness by the now experienced and reflective unjustly, in retrospect they now know she was the most honest lover they had ever had, and perhaps that's ever been.