In the morning, your hands always shake as you take the spoon to stir your instant coffee. You look down at the sink and I can see that you’re somewhere far away from me in this room.  It’s funny how close of an eye you keep on the clock, as if you’re waiting for a certain hour that’ll be the savior of you. That hour never strikes and you are always turning your watch incessantly.

In bed, when you roll over and face the wall, my own stomach fills up with a sort of self-disgust so repulsive that I’m really not sure how I managed to swallow it in the first place. You keep your distance and I’m forever trying to bridge the gap. I’ll never get there; I’ll never get to you because my glory is wasted on you.  And I only ever feel like a fool for contenting myself to feast on disappointment every time I see you.  

But I come back because I’ve got my issues too.  All the others, I can’t even give the time of day because I learned as a child, that love is conditional and that when it disappears, it always comes back stronger no matter how ephemeral. I’ve been addicted to these sparks my entire life.

Sure, I could say that there is something between us but your love (or whatever the hell it is that you’re feeling), dies the second your feet hit the floorboards at the foot of your bed.  You feed me scraps and I’m always starving for more.  

            You check the clock once again and then you look me in the eyes and tell me that it’s time to go. I gather my things, kiss you on the mouth and step out in to the world, carrying you and your disease in my rib cage like a contagious cancer.