Last mile in the pale light
Take me home with you tonight
We'll touch 'till it feels right
You won't say love, but I might
Made love and you muttered "We're through"
One heart but the mind was in two
One half-filled with the dreams of a saint
The other filled with nothing but hate
You're sitting comfortably in an armchair, deeply engrossed in a book when he finally comes home. The sun has begun to set and you were getting worried about him. He brushes you off and glares when you greet him, happily.
He must still be mad, you realize with a slight frown. Closing the book, you rise to your feet and walk into the kitchen, where he's busy cooking something. You both spend so much time in this room, you've gone to extra lengths to make it yours, the both of you. Various pictures decorate the walls, pictures of the two of you. He isn't smiling in all of them, not his real smile. You're probably one of only a handful of people who have seen him really smile.
He isn't smiling now, you notice with a pang.
You try once again to talk to him, about anything at all. You just want to hear the sound of his voice, and maybe get him to smile. If he smiles, then you know that everything will be alright. You want everything to be alright.
You chuckle at something you mentioned, something trivial and unimportant, as an attempt to ignore the nagging feeling of doubt gnawing on your stomach. Remaining optimistic has always kept you safe, and you've always found it easier to smile than to cry. Not that you want to cry right now, but you're not really up to laughing and smiling either.
His only response is a quick jerk of the head and an irritated sigh. You remain where you are, feeling utterly useless as you watch him wash a tomato. He hadn't liked the fruit, vegetable, whatever it really was, until you prepared one for him. You feel a new surge of confidence and hope upon seeing the red tomato in his hands, and once again you try to engage him in a conversation.
He doesn't even acknowledge you this time.
Your face falls and your hands ball into fists. You don't want to keep trying, but it's the only thing you can do. You've never given up on him before, and you're not about to. You wonder if he secretly resents you for that.
The words are falling from your lips before you can even register what you're saying. Your hands are shaking. You're worried and you just want to talk to him and you're not even aware of what you're saying.
He turns around sharply and fixes you with a cold glare as he spews various insults. It's not uncommon for him to insult you, but this is different. His words have more of a punch to them now, and they sting. Now he's yelling, and you've lost it, and you're yelling too. You don't want to, but you've gone too far and you can't stop now. You notice the tomato lying on the counter, forgotten during your argument.
He tells you that he's leaving, for good. You barely acknowledge what he's said. It's been said many times before, after all. A picture falls from the wall, landing with a crack on the floor. You try to calm your voice, in the hopes that maybe he will relax if you do, but to no avail. You've both gone too far.
In a flash, he's out the door, shouting at you over his shoulder. You hear the front door slam shut and you sink to your knees, not even trying to be optimistic. Sometimes you wonder why you even bother trying to make this work.
