I
"It's almost spring..."
His voice was quiet, I couldn't tell if it was because spring meant being happy, or because it meant I was leaving again. He rolled over onto his side as the sun came through the curtains and created stains of light on his bare skin. His hair fell in his face, and I began painting pictures in my head of the two of us together during the next few months.

II
It's been a month since I left him, and I'm stilling painting pictures. It isn't of the two of us anymore though, it's only him. I sketch out the shape of his face and shade around his darkest thoughts. I like to imagine his voice, cooing, in my ear. I write him letters filled with my tears. I don't know if he opens them but I know that just the envelope screams, "I miss you."

III
Two months, sixty-one days, one thousand four hundred and sixty-four hours since I left him. I didn't want to leave; I wanted to stay, wrapped in his worn out silhouette. I don't know if he'll accept my torn up body anymore. Sometimes, I see his name form in my scars, and I think it's a sign that I should go back.

IV
I've lost track of how long it's been since I left; All I know is that there are forty-one days until I can go back, and that I've begun to smell like tobacco and sunflowers.

V
The sun doesn't shine as much here, and I think it's because the sky doesn't see your beautiful smile. I'm not really sure why I'm still here, I miss you.

VI**
When I walked into our apartment, you weren't there. I don't think you knew I'd be coming back four days early. The second you walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, I saw your eyes fill with tears.
I was back.

"It's almost summer time."
You said these words with a smile instead of a frown, and I knew it was because I wasn't leaving again.