When you come home tonight, I will not be there. On the sideboard there is a note that says “I am tired of wearing my heart on my sleeves for you, I’ve taken it back.” Look, it’s exhausting to love you like this. I would have stood outside for you if I knew you’d pass by to open the door for me but my fingers are cold and you’re just standing at the window trying to decide if you can be open enough to let me in. I don’t know if you can or know how but I know that my hands are tired of reaching to empty spaces. God, it’s not okay for you to love me when it’s convenient or when you’re not busy. It’s not okay for you to not try because you know I’ll be waiting there for you anyway. It’s not okay because your cold is seeping into me and I used to be throbbing once, I used to be a fire. I don’t know how to give less of myself to someone. I don’t know how to be half full or half feeling so when I said that I would have stayed with you, I meant it. I don’t want to have to be anything less than I am but I can’t stay with you anymore. Your arms are perpetually folded. Mine can’t reach far enough to keep us both warm. I’ve tidied your clothes. I’ve left you milk in the fridge, but I won’t pick up your calls anymore. I’m closing the door gently behind me, I’m not coming back, I have to look for something warmer.