Leaving.

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As if loving you
was not already
difficult enough.

You sit uncomfortably and slouched over the breakfast table, staring at something in the distance, or pass it; Pass the trees that surround our small cabin, something that only you can see. I clear my throat and pour myself a cup of coffee. It was disgusting. I could never make coffee, despite having worked at a cafe before. Instead, I reach for yours.
You don’t break your gaze, nor do you even acknowledge your mug slipping away from your loose grip. I clear my throat again, as if the tension between us was building itself in my throat.
“I…” I begin.
“Don’t start.” You mumble, voice still raspy from sleep.
I nod awkwardly and get up. Leaving the cup and the tension lingering behind me as I make my way back to the bedroom. I plop down on the bed, face first, allowing it to attack the ruffled pillow.
You step in ever so quietly. But my senses were heightened, expectant. Waiting for something, anything, to occur. This time, you clear your throat.
“I’m leaving.” You say it as if you too, are unsure of the meaning behind it. I lay motionless for a moment, as if you wouldn’t be able to see me if I stayed frozen, hoping to snag a little more time to assess the situation, and the ambiguous statement. But I’m not invisible, and you’ve never been very patient.
“Okay.” I say.

And some things will never change.





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