It's seven o'clock in the morning.
We've just stopped talking.
You don't sleep anymore.
"Sleep when you're dead" is your favorite saying now. It never used to be.
You hate talking about politics. You used to love it.
We argued for two hours. We talked for the rest.
You hate arguments.
I don't know what I'd do without you. I don't know what to do with you.
We go to bed.

It's eight at night.
You're dead.
Asleep, that is.
Your sister's been calling you.
You hate her. You didn't use to.
I pick up the phone.
"Put him on the fucking phone now."
I tell you she's pissed. You take the phone and hang it up.
We go to bed.

Tomorrow you'll be gone.
On a plane to some new extravagant place I hate.
On a bus to some tourist shop to buy me something I'll throw away in a week.
I hate you now.

Wednesday you're back.
Is it really Wednesday?
You brought back something special.
It's special, all right.
I love the smell more than I love you.
It's five when we go to bed.
Five in the afternoon, that is.

I leave you a note.
It's a pink Post-It.
I hear you crying to your sister when I call your best friend the next day.
I'm glad you're friends with her again.
I'm glad you can cry again.
Your best friend takes me out to a restaurant down the street.
I like him. He's witty. But humorless.
He has a smile. But frowns.
He drives a Harley. But hates it.
He's no bad boy. But he is.
He isn't you.
We go to bed.

They say,
In life,
You make stupid choices.
You make rash decisions.
You hurt the ones you love.
What about loving the ones you hurt? The ones that hurt you?
I didn't want to hurt you.
I just wanted to go to bed.