It feels like you're gone. As if you've quietly excused yourself from my life, you slipped out the door while another of my friends was telling a wild story that had everyone enthralled. And I sat in this lonely dining room, sat and waited long after everyone else had left, days and days and days until maybe you'd come back, you'd throw your jacket that She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named bought you onto the couch. You'd throw it on the couch, leave the living room and turn the corner to the dining room. You'd see me sitting among everyone's left overs, from days, maybe weeks ago, among dirty dishes and the smell of stale perfume and candles that have turned into burning puddles of wax. You'd see my running eyeliner, my messy, unkempt hair, the ladybug that accompanied me for the past few days in your absence. You'd take me into your arms, and I'd cry, sob, scream, despite having gotten all of that out days ago. You'd rock me back and forth, you'd rub circles into my back with just the tip of your thumb (like you always do), you'd refuse to let go. I wouldn't ask where you've been, you wouldn't ask about my friends or why I haven't moved. Because we both know, we've been to the darkest places these past few days, weeks, months. But none of that requires any discussion, because you came back, and I waited.

After what seems like lifetimes, we'd separate, and tend to the leftover food and dirty dishes that have, between the time that you arrived and now, accumulated grotesque levels of mold.