He knew that deep within the unspoken valleys of his fissured heart, that nothing would fill his soul to the brim as she did. She, who was an overflowing glass of White Zinfandel, the color of faithful, faded pink rose petals. She who turned his quiet nights, beside another, breathing softly, into guilty pleasures of the most forbidden desire.
When the same old, rusty motions of sex caused his mind to drift, just so the time passed quicker, he would smell a wave of her perfume- white orange petals and ginger. Instead of those brown eyes, so full of trust and love, turned abrasively into the dark blue trenches of the deepest parts of the ocean. Those eyes haunted him, and yet he secretly yearned for them in his times of question and confusion.
She was not God, or angel, she was something beyond the human scope of understanding. Yet she believed herself less human than he did.
In her own bed, cradled in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. She would wake to the faint whispering of his voice in her ear, not that of her lover, but of freckles and curly hair.
And there was a mutual guilt, that was not spoken of between friends. They had never been unfaithful, not physically.
But who is to say that being unfaithful is not only just the hot, deep, passion of skin on skin, hairs pulling between finger tips. Sensual tastes of the other, heavy in their mouths.
Being unfaithful can be your unintentional thoughts, the voice you begin to speak out when fear strikes at your heart- not the name you should call, the name of the one who stands beside you with tight grips around your heart. The dreams of darkness, illuminated not by the one who offers their candle to you in the storm, but the hand which eternally remains out of reach.