As insomnia clouds my mind the days begin to blur together. Kyle's eyes dance with questions; mine plead to keep them unpoised. As we lie together they silently dangle from his lips.
Our whole relationship has become dangerously percarious; I remain stagnant for fear if I tip anything too far in any direction it will all crash around me.
Guilt is caustic in my stomach, filling me to gluttonous extents. Words that I swallow replace meals, real food making me ill. Phantoms haunt me, wearing away. Any sort of real emotion too close to honesty, I may lose grasp on myself. For some reason, love is killing me.
His bright eyes meet me from across the table as he heats. Since I had such a big, late lunch ( of everything I am unable to speak,) I refrain. "How long has it been since you've eaten?" his lips part, destroying the strained silence between us. I choke back the number eight- days, not hours- and look instead to the table.
Before it registers that he's moved at all, the slam of the front door startles me back just in time to let out a strangled cry at his absence.
But love doesn't hurt, does it?