#have you ever seen a woman so beautiful you started crying

[elvisbdoll]

The other woman

The first time he kissed you, you were twenty years old.

You tasted him on your lips for days, felt the ghost of his hands on your waist even when you were alone. He was older—twelve years between you both—but that only made him more intoxicating. He carried himself with the ease of a man who had seen the world, and when he looked at you, it was as if he had discovered something untouched, something fragile.

Elvis Presley. A man whose name was a religion, whose face was worshiped in neon lights, but in the dim glow of your apartment, he was just a man. He let you call him baby in a voice barely above a whisper, let you trace the slope of his nose, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the plush of his mouth like he was something you could keep.

It started like a dream. A warm, golden dream where time didn’t exist—only the low hum of his voice, the scent of cologne and tobacco clinging to his skin, the way he held you against his chest as if he needed you to breathe.

But dreams don’t last.

You should have known.

—

The other woman wears fur coats in the wintertime.

You saw her once—his wife—standing beside him like she had always belonged there. Poised. Beautiful. The kind of woman who fit into the world he came from. She was the picture in a gilded frame, the pristine portrait of what a man like him was supposed to have.

You? You were the smudge of lipstick on his collar. The scent of something forbidden clinging to his skin when he came home too late.

At first, you tried to ignore the ugly feeling twisting inside you. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he was yours in the quiet moments, when his hands tangled in your hair, when his voice turned soft with sleep, when he said your name like a prayer.

But then the nights grew longer. The phone rang less. The excuses came easily to him now—Baby, I got caught up. You know how it is.

And you did.

Because the other woman has time to manicure her nails.

And you? You had time to wonder who else he was touching.

—

The first time you cried in front of him, he wiped your tears with his thumb, sighing like a man exhausted by love.

“I hate seein’ ya like this, honey.”

“Then don’t give me a reason to be like this.”

But he only kissed you.

And you let him.

—

You became the woman who sat by the telephone, waiting for it to ring. You became the woman who watched his life from the shadows, who saw him on television in a suit too perfect to belong to the man who whispered sweet nothings in your ear at night.

And slowly, you began to disappear.

The girl he once held in his arms, the girl who laughed freely and dreamed wildly—she faded like cigarette smoke, curling into nothing.

Because the other woman will always cry herself to sleep.

And you were so, so tired of crying.

—

The last time he kissed you, you tasted salt on his lips.

Tears. Yours or his, you didn’t know.

“You don’t have to go, darlin’,” he murmured, but his voice was heavy, like he already knew you would.

You pressed your hands against his chest, felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. For a moment, you let yourself remember the beginning—the golden glow of his love, the way it had wrapped around you like a promise.

But love was not enough.

And so you left.

You didn’t look back.

(But God, you wanted to.)

—

And somewhere, miles away, the other woman turned off the bedside lamp, resting her hand on the empty space beside her.

Because even the woman he went home to would never truly have him.

No one ever did.

Tags: @jhoneybees @i-r-i-n-a-a @gyratingpresley @kxnnxy @iloveelvisss @buglass @rjmartin11

[mattikitku]

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