There I was, curled up in a ball, with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, breathing slow, and heavy. The kind of breath you breathe after sex, when it’s good, and your bones are full of this weak kind of overwhelming satisfaction, as you bite your bottom lip and grin. But I was far from grinning. He’d left me with no assurance that he’d ever return, with not one slap that forced my head all the way to the right, as I buried my face into my shoulder. He gave me silence, accompanied by a dead stare. A stare I didn’t understand how to read. Did he not love me anymore? Did he hate me? Worse, did he no longer give a fuck? Nothing. I pushed and shoved him, screamed until my voice was swallowed into the walls; he wasn’t listening, he wasn’t responding to anything. Just silence, and a dead stare. I could feel myself trying to hold back my tears, he showed me no emotion, so why the hell should I? Yet I couldn’t help it. My eyes were a stormy night, cloudy with confusion, rainy with a warm sorrow I only wished he could feel against his fingertips as he wiped my tears away, veins vivid like a scarlet lightning full of a rage that only showed my passion, pupils dilated, I wanted him. I wanted him to shove me harder than I’d shoved him. I wanted him to have me pressed up against the wall by his forearm as I pointed my toes and tried to reach the ground, breathless from an anger that promised me a tomorrow. I wanted to feel his fists pound against my thigh as he left me a big purple bruise. I wanted him to bite me, sink his teeth into my shoulder, where his lips would eventually make their way to my neck, and his chest against mine, and his fingers on my cock yanking wildly. I wanted to feel his love and his lust and his rage and his hatred for me and anything else in the world, and I swear I would’ve absorbed it like water to a sponge. I wanted to feel his fingers wrapped up in my hair as he arched my back up and into him as we fucked away our troubles and reminded ourselves why we’d always be together. I lost myself for a moment, in all my wishes and wants, thinking they were actually happening. Still I had silence, and a dead stare. His face began to sculpt into something, rather someone, which I had no recognition of. It looked hard, but exquisite, like a fine marble. I just wanted to lick his lips and slither my tongue right in between them, hoping that if he weren’t listening to my words, perhaps somehow I can wear them at the very tip of my tongue just enough so he could taste them, and swallow them deep into his gut the way he did my cum. It was useless though, his jaw was clenched too tight, his teeth were like a tall and beautiful, freshly painted, white picket fence I didn’t want to break entry to. His silence, and his dead stare, his tough embodiment, his numbness, was all too much for me to bare. I’d given up on the idea of fixing something I’d ruined. I don’t know how I ruined it but I did, I know I did. He turned around finally, walked down the stairs and stood by the door. I followed. He paused and cracked his marble as he leaned in for a very light kiss, and whispered “I love you.” I said it back, because I did, but I couldn’t tell if this was goodbye or see you later. I slammed the door, pissed off at not knowing what had just happened, walked upstairs and into my room, slammed that door too. I licked my lips thoroughly, because that might have been the last time I’d ever get to taste him. And there I was, curled up in a ball, with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, breathing slow, and heavy. The kind of breath you breathe after sex, when it’s good, and your bones are full of this weak kind of overwhelming satisfaction, as you bite your bottom lip and grin. But I was far from grinning.