wish washaway

He has a girlfriend now.  
I’m still the lover. We all know    
about each other.    
   
Here am I, though,    
having adored the left side of his bed    
and imagined it mine  -    
maybe -    
one day.    
   
Monday night    
I stayed over    
and saw her belongings there    
for the first time.    
I am alright. It’s all okay. She and I    
have no illness, but    
her shit was all over the nightstand,    
her tampons were on the back of the toilet,    
her brush on the sink,    
and I do mind.    
   
I really wanted that place.    
I wanted him to become as common to me,    
as routinely admired    
as my morning light fading in and out and away    
I wanted    
to see all his moods and ticks and shades    
as varied as the weather    
and as constantly beautiful.    
I wanted him to be my home,    
and me to be his,    
wanted to touch all the moments    
between our visits    
Wanted to become an expert    
at untying the knots in his back    
from near-nightly practice.    
   
I was so sure a lifetime of days with him    
wouldn’t make him quit enthralling me -    
I was certain    
my ocean of a rapture for that man    
would come in waves    
but stay -    
and I wanted to test that theory out.    
God, how I fucking ached to.    
   
Now I can't even
guiltlessly
entertain to.
Honestly, I don't need it.    
It just burns to wash that wish    
off my selfish hands.    
To bleed it.  
   
When I first told him I loved him    
I told him I didn’t care    
what I was to him as long as I could make him    
warmer. Then I said,    
actually,    
I did care    
that I get to keep seeing him.    
He squeezed me and murmured permission.    
   
That wasn’t a lie I told.    
And it still isn’t.    
I'm happy he has love at home    
and need not sleep lonely.    
And I am -    
I am content with whatever presence in his life I get.    
He is a privilege.    
Contentedness    
does not kill    
a dream softly, though, and dreams    
can put wasps behind your eyes    
and poison in your guts    
when they die.    
   
Now I have to wait    
For her to be out of town,    
Or else take the couch.    
I mean.    
Ouch.