His stomach hurt as he looked at her. It seemed that she caused him to have a permanent ache.
There were tear tracks on her face and a crumpled handkerchief in her hand. Her shirt was torn, her shoes muddy.
He thought that she had never looked more beautiful or more sad.
He felt intensely. He had no idea in what mood he was feeling this intensity, but she made him feel in a way that he hadn't before. Or at least not in a very long time.
They came together likes waves crashing.
Mouths upon mouths. Until there was hesitation. Like there always was.
She pulled away. Like she always did. Every time. He didn't ask what was wrong. He already knew.
He whispered sweet nothings into her ear as she sobbed even harder than she had been. His hands rested on her hips and and he rested his cheek against hers. She smelled like sweat and fear and another man's cologne.
It happened much like it always did.
He comforted. He made things better. He kissed her bruises and smothered her with his love. For he lived her with the entirety of his heart. She, she was what made him whole. She was the reason he hadn't given up years ago. She was his life.
Only he was not hers.
There was always some other guy. Some dangerous, rugged, handsome other guy. Some other person to make her feel like she was alive. That's the way it always worked. That's what she wanted and he could not begrudge her that. Anything to make her happy. That's what he wanted.
And even when he sobbed and felt like the world was ending, he would never tell her that she couldn't have what she wanted.
And then in the morning she was gone.
An empty bed is the sign of an empty heart. Or, at least, his empty heart. He did not want crisp, spotless sheets. He wanted her tangled up in them. He wanted to wake up and kiss her and not care about morning breath. He wanted to make her waffles and lick syrup off her skin and love her with all his heart and soul and body.
The tide had left. The sun had come up.
The bruises had healed.
But not his heart.