Sherlock's Deleted Email.
These frozen hands at my waist, the smell of flesh is not the same. He's taller than who I want him to be, laying between my thighs on the couch I've often laid on. His hair a greasy dark while yours is a light, ashy blonde. His face, narrow, aged and aggravating while yours is round, and youthful and pleasant.
His voice is deep and clear, yours is a bit nasally but I find it pleasant while his is just shot after shot of what yours isn't. I've been trying to replace you, and I chose the wrong person to do so even as he grinds himself against me and my stomach knots, his hands squeezing my waist and hips, our breath instilled in the colder air.
My throat feels tight, like the finger you've shackled that golden band around. Or silver or whatever color and cheap metal you've chosen that I've come to despise because it is the very piece of metal that proves that you never were and you never will be mine. It is the very piece of metal that has placed me here, saddled in the lap of a man I wish was you, feeling just enough pleasure to keep me sustained while the city goes caseless, and the drugs have all run dry, and the holidays fall upon us and I'm reminded you're not mine. You're hers! You've chosen her over me! I guess that's what two years gone has left me with. A bitter flavor of what I used to have, and a hole cut from my life that you used to occupy.
We never get past this part. Our clothes still on, his...piece digging in. He has a wife he's all but faithful to and here I am, allowing this. Each grind against my bottom and I'm reminded of how sickening he is. With each moan and rough thrust through four layers of cloth I'm made aware of how sickening I am for allowing this with someone I'm attempting to replace you with.
If I would have known that allowing him into my flat the first time would prompt him to return like a lost dog you just want to impound, but euthanasia is too cruel then I would have barred my doors. I would have made my dislike for him more apparent. More obvious. But here he is now; even with my eyes closed, my hips rolling under his grip, his nails scratching the flesh just beneath the waistband of my slacks I can tell he isn't you.
His body, thin and lacking muscle or heft where as yours would fit so pleasantly beneath me, taking up the space between my thighs. It's these thoughts, imagining with all of your aspects tucked away in my mind palace that keeps me accepting his entrances, his advances.
It's my pathetic attempt to pretend that it's you, even as I won't admit it. And this confession is just as it is on every regret filled morning when his wife calls and he leaves with a visible stain on his knickers from the anticlimactic release that over takes him with very little relief to me before rolling over and sleeping.
A typed out confession, pleading with you in some...widely swung manner, and through every re-read, fishing for the right words -or at least confirmation that I hadn't offended you in any sort of way- and only feeling shame reflecting on his name slipping from my tongue with the similar bitter taste of swallowing poison.
In the end, the only justification I can obtain is deleting it and sparing myself the anxiety of wondering how you'll react with your vast array of emotion if not some dignity.
Just another deleted email thrown to the bottomless graveyard of secrecy. Maybe one day when I stop feeling disgusted with myself for allowing Philip to take your place will your eyes see these.
