getting the cat from the animal shelter
I came home and there is someone else sleeping in his bed on the sheets I bought him and my quilt that I gave him the first time we ever hung out because he was "cold" ,he whispered, and living in his tiny tomb of a room with the weed closet and the pac-man baby on the wall and a koi fish poster to cover up the window that faced the sidewalk. I woke up and there are tiny stuffed animals at the foot of his bed, half visible and a purple husband pillow, and he is trying to explain, trying so, so hard to pardon my feelings and trying so hard to maintain his reasons, but there isn't any good enough, "We use that sometimes to watch movies when people are in the other room..." I start balling. I start balling and throwing my keys in the bathtub. Then I lock my self in the bathroom and yell to him from there unable to see his face. "You left me, you left me, you moved to Greenville and left me!", that is all he can say. Everything is spoken in repetition to give it more justification. I never write like this, I never tell people these things, but if I don't write this somewhere I will lay in my parents bed crying and shivering and dreaming about it and waking up in cold sweats of anger with the leftovers of my dreams. I have known for weeks. The getting the cat. The being naive. The time and space.