When I hug you, I smell his scent on your shirt. Not yours, the one that smells like fresh roses after a long drought. I know you’ve never been mine, I understand, but I also know that as you searched and searched for sweetness in his kiss you found nothing but bitterness in his lips. Yet, you would’ve always found the taste you searched for so sweet in mine. I would’ve became addictive in all the right forms, unlike his cancerous, piss poor excuse for love. It’s unfair, you sleep in his lair and don’t shake in the cold, but when ever you finally feel a shiver it’s not him you call, it’s me. You fall in my arms as you fall deeper for him, and say you love me when what you really love is to suffer. It makes no sense. You walk by with him and I become tense, not because of him, or the drunken jealousy. It’s your audacity to dismiss my existence when he is near. It’s your blindness for him, your love and adoration for him, the attraction and awe for him, the gaze that rightfully belongs to me that you bestow onto him. Its the plain fact that you don’t see, if you could love someone such as him this much, imagine how deeply you can love the one who is deserving. It’s you. You make me tense in the right way 9/10 times you’re around. The 1/10 is the tenseness in my fist that keeps me from tearing apart the man you hold so damn fucking dear, out of soul respect for the one I, hold dear. Because that, darling, is love. It’s me.