I should be bawling my eyes out as I curl up in a little ball of despair under the softness of the red fuzzy blanket that used to be the softness under us. But I'm not.

I should be trembling with the relentless red rage that can only come from the sting of the ultimate betrayal that so easily rolls off your forked tongue. But I'm not.

I should be taking every fiber of every piece of yourself that you've left here on your clothes and shoes and whatever all that other crap is, and building a bonfire just to see how long it will burn. But I'm not.

I should be hating you and vowing that I'll never speak to you again and imagining ways of inflicting any kind of pain on you that might make you feel even a fraction of the pain that you've inflicted on me. But I'm not.

I should be deleting your electronic footprints from my phone, my laptop and my heart and retracing my steps back to the predictable but content life that was my life before you came and made unpredictable and discontented seem like the norm. But I'm not.

I should promise myself that I'll start all that tomorrow. But I'm not.