I stand as soon as I see her face, sideways, on a pillow. I go outside. He is washing dishes, he doesn't hear the song, or know what it means. I sit on a chair and I sing the words while I know they play through the television's speakers.
Why did I go outside?
Because I am not ready to share this with him. I can't trust enough to share this with him. I can't show weakness, can't invite him into my heartbreak that has been my deepest companion for four and a half years.
Because I am possessive, too, and this is mine.
It's 5:10 in the morning. The early cars already are drawing deep breaths past my door. I inhale. There's still so much to do. And last night's phrases, sick with lack of basis, are still writhing on my floor.
I watch him leaning over the sink, scrubbing at dishes and loading them into the washer.
Is this who I always want to see in my kitchen? Will I ever sit inside while this song plays? Will he ever knock on the door and ask if I'm decent, or will he always just barge in with his newest fleeting thought, ready to derail me and conquer my consciousness?
But I know. I know, because he's told me, because I ALREADY knew, that no one else can be in that kitchen. Maybe an empty space. But no one else can know this song. No one else will deal with me. Will entertain my vain panic attacks or my selfish temper tantrums.
But I'm not being fair, 'cause I chose to listen to that filthy mouth. But I'd like to choose right; take all the things that I said that he stole, put them in a sack, swing them over my shoulder, turn on my heel, step out of his sight, try to live in a lovelier light...
But this is not about love. 'Cause I am not in love. In fact, I can't stop falling out.
I miss that stupid ache.