Take me Home

James' car pulls away from the curb, our eyes as red as each others. I've seen James cry before, but never like this. I've seen one tear roll down his face. One night, he cried in the dark when we were in bed together. But this is the first time I've really seen his eyes rimmed with red, tears freely flowing down his cheeks.

I try to wave as he turns the corner, but I don't think he sees. I walk back inside, still feeling like this isn't quite real.

The next day, and the house feels empty. Our room feels empty.

I guess this feeling wasn't what I'd expected.

I'd expected emotion. Sadness, anger, frustration (well, that's there), anxiety. In a way, I don't feel as anxious when I'm museless. No need to worry as to whether I'm someone else's muse too. I can stay out. I can be me. I can run for four hours. I can stay out all night.

But I like simplicity. I don't want to go out. I like getting into bed at ten o'clock, making love whenever we want.

It's funny, because with his presence, I would get itchy feet.

"James, do you want to go out?"
"James, do you want to go for a swim?"
"James, what do you feel like doing?"

Why? I guess I was worried that my presence wasn't enough.

Was his enough for me?

Of course, this is just the doubt that comes with absence. Absence that makes the heart grow fonder, so they say. So why does absence make my heart grow blacker?