kelland

I am escaping. Leaving the door unlocked and a note on the fridge. When you arise you will find an empty bed, an empty room, an empty house. Tripping wearily out into the street, I cannot find a way out. The air is thick -- my glasses fogged -- and I stop to tie my shoe. We've arrived at the point where you can no longer say the words to make me want to stay. The distance between us grows to an unthinkable length, and all we have left is a box full of toys we collected to remind each other. My income is as sparse as my tolerance to earn it. On hot days I stay inside, alone, limbs heavy and eyes glassy, struggling to open the window and climb outdoors. But you always come home cool and crisp and loaded and suddenly I feel dead and useless. Intervention time is over and I'm intervening my way away from you.