Whomever

Two

Suzanne is perfect. It's as if her presence makes the world lighter. She can't just be human, it's almost as if she has Rose water in her veins instead of blood. She smells of spice and dragons breath, her husband I suppose. I've never met him but I can't help hating him. He has the heart of the most brilliant woman I know and I am more jealous than I would admit in person. Here I am safe, scared but safe. She could read this and have no idea that it is her I write about. She could be laying awake at night in her bed reading this. She could be thinking "I would love to have somebody love me like the writer loves Suzanne. " and she would never know that it is her. My heart cries for Her. She has taken me down to her place near the river and wanting to travel blindly with her is all I know. She is Suzanne, so perfect, so pure, so in love with not me. And I can never have her. He is a lucky man, whoever he is but I hate him. With every fibre of my being I Hate him. She doesn't talk about him much and on the occasional long lonely night I let my mind wander. Wander to the what if's. What if she doesn't actually love him. What if I am good enough for her. What if she even thought of me as more than a friend. And on these nights I cry. Not just for myself but for all those like me. Those who have a Her, a Suzanne. A one that they are too afraid to use the name of even anonymously online. A one that they have to pretend not to love every time they meet. For all those like me I cry. Suzanne will be the death of me but in the meantime she gives me life.