• There's always a her. An other. There's always an alternative banging on the doors of prospectives. She's always chosen. Her faces are like a knife through my being. Her image holds me by the throat. Takes my breath. Saps my energy and drains my thoughts.

  Smiling, snuggling soothing smothering suckling at what I had hoped could one day be mine. Nonchalantly bathing in the adoration I could never inspire - all cool crops and flowing locks. Eyes of crisp blue, delecate hazel, deep brown always carrying the same steady self assurance that I could never quite summon.

  I feel her on his lips on his hands. I feel his touches on her skin, his arm on her back his face on her chest. I smell him through her perfect nose. My stomach knots with the sensation. My own memories are replaced by the might of her image. There is no touch on my skin. Only hers. I cease to exist in my own mind as well as in theirs.

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