Usually, at this time, I'd be wondering where you were. If you were awake yet, if it was a good time to call
I'd be smiling, a little, in anticipation.
Tonight, I know where you are.
You're with her.
In her home.
In her bed.
In her arms.
It's not that I'm jealous, I'm really not. I don't resent what you give to her, or she gives to you, any more than she resents what you and I share. I'm happy in the knowledge you can find happiness together.
But I envy her.
I envy the fact that she will hear your voice when I will not. I envy her the touch of your hands and body. I envy her your kisses, your caresses, your exclamations of pleasure. I envy her the laughter she will share with you. I even her the tears you will shed when you part.
I can bear us being apart, usually, but, tonight, I'm forced to remember how distant you are, just because you are close to her.
It becomes so much harder to shut out the memory of how being with you feels, the memory of your smell, your taste, your heat, your presence, and so much harder to live with the aching longing for you, the wanting, because I know that somewhere, she is having what I want.
Tonight, I almost hate her.
Tonight, I almost hate you.
I want to be in her place.