I sat there pressing letters and punctuation marks on a touchscreen as if I were playing with the thorns of roses. Nine where are you and where’d you go’s later and still nothing. Eleven calls that would show up as missed on your end and not one return on your part. I looked under furniture as if you were some childhood blanket I needed immediately to help suppress my anxiety. I threw back the curtains yearning to see you outside smoking a cigarette because you know I’d throw a tantrum if you lit one in the house. Or I’d hope to see you coming back from the shop because you remembered I liked the buttered croissants only Louie could make at this time in the mornings. But really, all that happened is we fucked and you played me. Just up and left me. And broke me again when I was on the right road to recovery and rediscovery. Breaking backs and breaking hearts. That’s all you’re good for.
Before I knew it, I got up. Without looking at him or back to him, I took seven steps to the bathroom. Seven. The number of completion. Totality. Deadly sins. I close the door to turn on the shower and just sit on the cold floor, in front of a mirror. I let the water run just so a fog can form on the glass and I can see you in the mist. If I touch the glass, I touch you. If I touch the glass, I’ll erase you. And as he comes in the bathroom to check me and tell me, he’ll be going home for the night and he’ll call me in the morning, I want nothing more than to erase the two faded blue lines I saw on the stick days ago that you found before you left.