Thinking back, it still haunts me, a double life in which we live day or night, as if we are different people, and I find I lost you in the day light and cling to the one I secretly crave by night, life once a romance amid paper clips, file folders and mistaken emails, divorced from when someone better came along, the man or men with that Midas touch, and the determination to keep you – as if you could be kept by any man, you keep yourself, while I became the cuckhold on the stairway between two floors, forced to bear witness from afar, imagining the worst, men doing what I wished I could still do, a secret life live behind the meetings and memos, while in the end, I tried to avoid the angry looks, the cold shoulder, while knowing the real view from her desk was of somebody’s bed, breeding nightmares in me that are still nightmares when I wake up, the illusion fading now that someone else has that desk, a strange face I see when I expect to see yours.
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