He left.
The wound is still fresh,
stinging with guilty relief.
Adrenaline — the open door.
An empty bed.
Sheets tangled,
stretched across the floor.
Quiet delight —
the sound of the door slamming
because he forgot his boxers
and needs to kiss me ten more times.  

No. He's already home.
He hasn't been home
here for a while now.
Dare I check my phone.
Dare I check my texts.
Dare I leave this bed.

There was comfort in
those passing fights.
Up after down,
holding each other
so intensely
we were afraid to let go,
I didn't want to let go,
but it was time, and
he's not the type to fight.
What's done is done.
It's over.
I've listed the reasons why.
Without convincing,
I've (sort of) made up my mind.
And even if he hasn't, he'll try.