Away.

again, 20 to 4 and no hopes of retreat, though my eyes are puffy with longing and lose their burn when closed. but my fingers won't stop moving, typing, strumming, and i can't stop breathing and humming. i squint--but not hard enough to see past all of this haze. my vision is clouded and so is my mind. my stomach will not stop twisting itself, and nausea has actually started to sink in. nauseous; nauseous with hurt, with reluctance, with bitterness and remorse. i broke him down because i knew i could, i knew i could make him see my way, to pull himself together and be there for me, even if he really didn't want to be. i wanted to make him be there and see and feel all of my hurt. crying through text, draping each word with a tear, making sure i struck a chord. and he turned around. he actually showed concern. he asked what was needed and i told him. and then through tired and depressed thought, he muttered, "don't." don't. like it's that easy. then with a final wave of hopeful and forced concern he said:

"Let's go, Tom Wingfield."

only he would make that connection. only he would save me with that phrase. and for a minute, it made me laugh. but the laugh quietly turned to guilt as i reflect upon the night with heavy eyes and a heavy heart. why do i keep doing this to him? why do i drag him back in? but namely...why do i always have to drag him back in?

i'm waiting for the day he walks in by himself, and my hands are at my side and not clenching his shirt collar.