Lying there in silence, heavy breathing as the only metronome, I realize that this is what betrayal feels like. Hands caressing face, pawing at each other in the dark. He is new and unfamiliar. He is strange and different. He is smoother and shinier and so incredibly tainted. He is not you.
In the moment, it is wonderful. Skin on skin. Rhythmic, poetic and slightly messy. Body parts in clumsy motion. There’s a nose, there’s a knee, there’s a scent I don’t recognize. There are feelings of excitement and exhilaration. But when it’s over, it is raw. It is empty. We lay there tangled in each other but only because of circumstance. There is a body next to me, but I don’t feel it like I felt you. He is not you.
The space feels claustrophobic. The dark deceives me. It’s easy to pretend that this is exactly how it has always been. Then there are moments when I suddenly realize I am here with a stranger. You cannot hold, comfort, caress him like you want to, like you’ve grown used to. He is not yours. He is a lover of the physical sort, with no emotion at all. It was all for the primal need to be touched, to be acknowledged. It was good, but there is so much he lacks. He is not you.
There is no morning nuzzle, no sleepy smile. No pillow talk or reluctant rising. All very methodical and calculated. Alarms were set and curtains left open for morning light. The sun is up and so is he. You turn to watch him dress and gather his things, collect himself before facing the new day. There is nothing beautiful or poetic about this moment. I wish he’d stay a minute. Only I realize that’s not true because that would be reserved for you. And he is not you.