Sometimes, you aren't sure he knows what he's asking for.
He poses provocatively, all flowing silks and exposed skin.
He blows smoke in your face, like he's hoping for a reaction.
He tilts his neck, crosses his legs and looks at you with hooded eyes.
He's channeling her.
Still mourning her, always missing her.
He loves her most of all.
He thinks acting like her will bring her back.
You're not sure it will.
You're not sure it won't.
An egg sits always waiting in your pocket.
But he's got it wrong. He is missing her playfulness. His eyes are full of quiet desperation.
Lonely, so lonely.
He is full of empty….
. . . . . .
…spaces.
Begging you to fill them.
He's not yours. He's not yours.
You stay.
I'm back-Welcome home.
You eat, and annoy him, and run errands, and help with customers, and clean up after him, and clean him up when he makes a mistake, and blood drips, and he smiles, like he's only living now,
in this moment.
And then he looks at you from his bed. Flirts and suggests and mocks your stoicism.
You love him too much to give him that. To take that.
You love him. So you won't.
because...
He doesn't know what he's asking for.