I realized I had been wrong
when I came in the door.
He was sat on the couch,
one ear bud in
quietly drawing in his
sketchbook.
He greeted me with a
“Hi pretty Paige”
and kissed me.
I pulled out my IPad and
we sat like that for awhile
until he looked at me
and said,
I missed you.
It caught me off guard
from convincing myself
he never thinks of me,
so I sheepishly said
I missed you too
and he kissed me on the forehead.
That’s when I knew
I had been wrong.
He’s an artist, he’s quiet.
He doesn’t say all that much
but I think he doesn’t
feel the need to.
He just shows it.
But I am a writer.
Words are like facts to me.
I need to hear and see the proof.
We continued to color
and draw in the quiet of his
living room,
until we walked to the gas station
to get cigarettes, a slurpee
and snacks.
He continued being affectionate,
and I tried my best to stay up late
with him.
He told me he had missed
hanging out with me like this,
and I told him I did too.
And I really had.

I went to the bar by myself.
My favorite one that’s
right by the railroad tracks
and has a big red neon
light that shines the name
of the joint.
I had a shot of fireball
and a miller light
and wasted my money
on touch tunes.
No man,
just ones in my inbox.
About to finish this beer and
head home.
Just drunk enough,
to enjoy music and a
cigarette.
I love Wednesdays.

I knew it was over
by the time he finally
laid down next to me.
Very far away.
So I left the necklace
I always wear on his table.
As a question or a test.
See if he notices
that I never come back for it.

He hasn’t worn its match
in months anyway.