I’m with you, but I prefer him, especially now.  Now that you’ve revealed you, now that we’re past polite and I see and live with what lives behind door number two.  You weren’t my first choice; you were my downfall. We had a rhythm, a cadence between us; something you and I don’t have. Won’t have. I hid with him, under the lip of a sheet, and I could stare at him for days.  His perfect face, the crinkle of his eyes.  He sweats when he sleeps.  “You smell like sick,” I told him.  Or was it, “you smell like dead.”  It doesn’t matter.  I saw his flaws.  I could live with him.  Forever.  Vacuuming the floors of our house, the one we may never have because I chose wrong.  I’m here with you, instead of in bed with my likeness. Listening to his music, the stuff he played me on his iPod, and then kept asking if he’d ever played it for me.  I could listen to the way his mind works and want to drink it.  I loved his body.  I want you to hurt.  I can’t sleep.  He can’t either.  I have an unspoken insomnia with him, where we know, without speaking, we’re in each other’s thoughts.  I cheat on you with him in sleep. When you come to me, sleep marks still on my hands, impressions on my face, you can see him.  “Give me a kiss,” you say, your breath a rancid blanket, and I want to tell you, you’re not my husband.  I kiss you quickly and feign a smile. You’re not the life I should be living.