Woebegone

He doesn't return for a while. I sit in silence until he returns, rolling cigarettes, counting the grains of cereal in the Coco pops, running a finger over the blade of a knife. I wonder what he would do if he returned to my dead body. The sun sleeps and the moon wakes four times before the door creaks open and his vulgar vocabulary signals his arrival. He lights a cigarette, cradling the smoke inside his mouth. His left eye is black and blue and his lips is cut. He still looks delicate, a fragile skin coat of muscle and bones. I welcome his with a single kiss because I'm desperate for his touch.

“I need you” I whisper, and he nods.