To the girl with whom I might have shared a man

Resting on my bed, in the insomniac midnight air of the second day of September, I come to you blemished. Bearing sins of six generations of an oblivious Sodom. To sit down with you and disentangle the mystery of a man that holds both our hearts in his arms.

I have thought about you, about the possibility of you being there. And the possibility that the mumble he swallows in the jangle of our lovemaking is an attempt to warn me that there is another like me. Or the stains on his shirt are maps I can trace with my fingers to get to you. Or the keylock on the phone is the wall I need to jump over and find you, squatting, waiting for him. Or the fast pounding of his heart when he is kissing me insanely is a silent sentence that speaks of you.

No, do not inflame in disgust. Do not stand me against a yardstick and calculate my worthlessness. Like you, I have disregarded any possible hint from my conscience that there might be another, except on moments like these. I have hungrily eaten his words with my ears. Thawed into discipleship by this man. I have lost my sanities in a fiery flare of the heart. I have spread my thighs in clean linen, quenching my thirst in his manliness.

Nights like today, and mornings like tomorrow, I have let him melt in my mouth like a piece of candy. How does he taste? Like caramel and chocolate with a little tease of saltiness. And in those nights and mornings, I have wanted only him, the music in the player and our throbbing loins to be my only husbands.

And after we are done, heaving in the ‘sighs’ of satisfaction, sleeping next to him as he snores away , I have thought about you; like I am doing now. I have wondered what you are doing. If you are trying to call him? Or it is your text he ignored earlier.  Or if he calls you the same sweet names that he calls me. How does he taste like? Does he also love his food with a lot of onions? Does he make his eggs in the morning?

Do not call me neurotic. Let us just be real, you are a huge possibility. Man is vast in needs, and they are rarely gratified. Or my inadequacies render me hopeless to these degrees, leaving me ricocheting in between the possibilities of you existing.

I wonder about us, who in between the two is the other woman…and who between the two of us has sinned and fallen short of glory. Or is it him? The dirty guck that I keep pulling back from my clogged sink drain? Or am I an enemy of my own peace? Wasting my after-sex moments cuddling with my worry? Wondering and whining in my aloneness?

It would lend my gaping voids inner richness to know that you are not there. That you do not exist at all. That when my hands interlock with his, and our bodies are rocking and blood bulges on his veins in the forehead, it is not because he is worried I will know, but because the ecstasy overwhelms him.  That the marks on his back are my own. My nails’ imprints. I. Alone. That when he gets lost in his silent moments, it is I he gets lost with. And as he turns in his sleep  now, asking me why I am still awake, and as I wrap my body around him to get lost in my own dreams, I believe only the voice that tells me you are not there. So I choose to end this story happy, stabbing you off my thoughts. Cinderella gets her prince, and the rhythm of my mans’ breathing and my own breathing lulls me to sleep. I shall think about you tomorrow.

(To the woman that has ever spent sleepless nights ulcerating herself over possibilities of him being a cheat. )