Morning Theft

The impatient June sun has been breaking through the curtains earlier each morning. 5:10. My heart wrenches with a suffocating, syrupy ache as I am drawn into the conscious realization of my new reality.

I have woken up alone for the first time. The endless warmth of his skin beside me palpably absent. His strong arms and sleepy, tender kisses and soft, affectionate smiles replaced with a field of cold space in our enormous bed. My enormous bed. It will take a while to adjust the semantics.

Why did I say those things? How could I not understand the wounds I was inflicting?

The wine. It was the wine that made me speak so.

I jump at the sound of a noise downstairs; heckles raise like a startled animal. High alert.

Should I go down there? Can I hold him? Can I say all of the things I need to say? Or perhaps he just needs space?

While these questions circle I hear the distinct click of the front door closing firmly; the beep-beep of the car. The swell of an engine that settles then shifts then moves away. Disappears.

And he gets away with my heart in broad daylight.