They told me to start anywhere. This seems as good as any.
I hadn't talked to you for four days. You text me ever night, letting me know you were at your moms, you'd be sleeping here again. I figured I'd give you some space, but after two days of that I was planning on stopping over. I came home after work and noticed that you'd been by during the day. Your clothes were shuffled; one of the drawers was even left open, like you'd left in a hurry. Your toothbrush was gone.
Figures that when you finally come home, I'm in the bathroom.
It's been hours since you left and my head is still a mess. As I bend down to wipe the blood from the ground, I can still hear you say "It's probably better this way."
As I lay down, I know I'll find no solace in sleep. You told me I'd brought this on myself. You're right. But I'd burn this entire city to the ground if it'd bring a light to your eye. "Just one more chance," I muttered, "with what I know now."
I stare at the ceiling and a fire burns my heart. I bite my tongue until blood fills up my mouth. I'm counting "5, 4, 3, 2, 1...". I'm remembering how to breathe. We speak of everything, except what it's really about. As you left, I screamed "I hate you!" But what I really meant was "I love you! I'm sorry! Please, don't leave!"
I must have gotten up when I was asleep. I'd never been a sleepwalker before. But that apartment building didn't burn down undirected; that fire didn't start itself.