I spend so much time getting lost in all of the moments we will never have.
A mere touch, a pointed look, a beautiful word from you leaves me smiling in the moment, but creates so much... yearning, that's the only word that could possibly fit, afterwards. And it's just so wrong, it's just not fair at all to me: I have these truncated versions of all of these moments that she's privileged to have fully realized with you.
Your hand on my back as you walk by is your comforting presence at hers whenever, for more than just a breath of time.
Your safe embrace, your hand never below my waist, is your hand on her hip, your arms around her waist, you holding her tight as you let yourselves melt together.
Your covertly prolonged gaze across the entire length of my body is your open admiration of her.
Your brief, tender squeeze of my arm is your hand in her hand.
Your elbow nudge when you're next to me, thinking about me, is you doing whatever the hell you wish, whatever you were thinking about actually doing when you want to do it with her.
Your flattery, your compliments you give on rare occasion and in hushed tones, is your daily worship of her very being.
Your eyes holding mine, your face within inches, is your lips meeting hers.
Your jokes, your innuendos, your sly comments and pointed moves, are your love made to her.
I want late Sundays in bed with the curtains closed and my head on your chest. I want the small yet significant gestures that speak love. I want it to be ok to lean into each other whenever struck by the frequent urge to just be touching. I want your embrace when you know it might be the only thing that can hold me together. I want the "I know, dear," "it's okay, dear," and the "good morning, beautiful," all the time. I want knowing I won't be the last text in the conversation, ever. I want doing things with you without needing an excuse to be spending the time with you. I want all of the things you slip up and let yourself do with me, without them being your slip up.
I hate you for it. Maybe you both don't let those moments live, anymore, maybe you're just a scumbag that I will never let myself recognize as a scumbag, maybe you've been bored - it doesn't matter, though. I'm so weary from being your toy, your plaything, your zest, your ego-affirming puppet. I'm sure you know full well how expertly you have me threaded around your little finger, yet somehow I continuously am the one to draw the lines, poorly, shakily, hesitantly, every time; I'm the one to cause us to both think twice about the implication of our actions by pulling back a bit, laughing less, dropping my gaze. It shouldn't be my responsibility. I hate you for it. My heart aches from it, day in and day out.
Because here's the thing. I love you. While you may love me, in a way, you'll never love me the same - as my love stems from the desire to have the complete version of all of these little moments, which is a story you've already had. You want me, but never how I want you. You adore me, but never as I adore you. You don't need to. You've had that. You don't crave it, will for it with every cell of your being, desperately search for its possibility in every interaction, because it's there for you whenever you want it - even if you don't appreciate it, use it, appropriately reciprocate it to her.
But here's the other thing. There may be no universe in which I truly want that with you. Because I'd hate you for it all, I'd hate you in knowing you could ever divert so much attention into someone other than your committed love. I guess I wouldn't know, though. Just as she doesn't. But I hope I'm ultimately wise enough; regardless of who those two people are in this universe, in any other, there will always be a me to your her.
How I would love to be in one of these other universes, in which you never married her, and we still meet - but there I accept that you're not good enough for me, you never were, likely never could be. The only difference is that I never have these fantasies, I never have to, because I could have you. You're still charming, you're still handsome, you still know the right things to say at the right time, but you're just another handsome, charming, smooth talker with his hand on my back, his eyes on my body, and his mind on himself... and I never need to write about you.