Home

I walked into the room smelling of lavender and uninhabited musk and saw that framed picture of us, me with my virgin smile and you with your homeless hair. Without thinking I dropped the bag loping from my shoulder strode across the carpeted floor and hurled the picture at a wall. It landed with a satisfying crunch, the wooden frame splintering and the glass cracking. I sunk to the floor and wept. I reached for the guitar you always hated and strummed it's heart chords and wept.

I haven't cried in a week. I haven't been able to. But being here in this room is more than I could ever have imagined. The last time you were here you were holding me, loving me, declaring me yours. I have to change my sheets now. I can't sleep on something like that.

Maybe if I sit here and I don't stop writing and playing this old guitar I will not have to face the fact that you are within minutes of me. At any moment your car could roll up my street like it always use to, the windows down and acoustic rock pouring out of the old creaky speakers. I wish you would roll up my street. You won't though. You won't.

Now I'm cleaning up the glass where the picture fell. And now there's blood on my hands from where the shards sliced into my fingertips. I haven't felt blood flow like that in almost a month. I think I might throw up.

I don't want to be home.