I hate thinking that he's thinking about her.
I hate imagining the scenarious in my head that I know he's imagining that aren't with me. I hate reading his words and reading about someone else. I hate that he's anguished and its not by me. I hate that he yearns and its not for me. I hate that she has caught him in a way I never will and I hate how that makes me feel. Why is that woman never me?

Somewhere I always go wrong and someone always sneaks into the very place that my whole body craves, every inch of my skin pulsing to get inside of him but somehow the route is always blocked.