"Good morning", he said, as he kissed me on my cheek.
My eyes fluttered open in a still room.
I smelled the salt of bacon and the sweet of pancakes.
“Jump out of bed”, I say to myself, “for it will be a lovely day.”
"Good morning, honey." I say to him, as he stood in front of the stove.
His beautifully, muscular arms flexed and relaxed while he stirred his morning tea.
He sipped slowly and I embraced him comfortably from the back.
For everything was splendid and positive and peaceful.

18 days have passed and
every morning, that has led up to this one, has been the same.
He wakened me with the comfort of his lips and he cooked me breakfast and he loved me.
But,
on the eighteenth day,
bad news came from his brother.
His mother had died.
He said, "It was too hard to bear."
In the day to come,
I did not receive his soft embrace to get me out of bed.
I received silence, or solitude, or the scorching sting of his slap.
He did not make me breakfast,
nor did he make lunch,
nor did he make dinner.
He yelled and cried and the tea he drank
became *****,
then whiskey,
then ***.
My mournings became my mornings.
The look of adoration and strength slipped from his eyes,
and from that eighteenth day 'til this one,
his eyes have been cold and violent.
The light never shines in this house,
and it is no longer a home
to me or to him or to our hopes or our dreams.
I love him so and I want to caress him and tell him he can get better from this,
but he has been experimenting with drugs and
hate flows in his veins
and the stench of alcohol consumes his heart.
Help please,
I love him and I can not let him go.