I don't think that you know what you've been missing

I woke up in your house and you were showering. I roamed around the kitchen, and stood in my underpants in the living room. I wanted to feel at home there like I used to but it didn't come. I sipped ice water, nursing some bad dehydration as I looked at all your things. Your one book shelf, your cluttered kitchen and little dining room table. I used to feel close to you, and I felt in love with all these little everyday symbols of you. I thought one day they would be symbols of us. Of both our names on some stupid piece of junk mail, our things together on the window sill. But you showered, and I waited. Growing ever more distant from you. From whatever life I used to picture with you. I dressed, made your bed and rode back to my car in yours in silence. I know it will be a few days before we talk again. It always is. Both of us hiding from sight, putting ourselves back together after such a private dismantling. We will present ourselves to each other again in several days or even over a week, and stand boldly like it never happened. Like you have never seen me naked, like I don't know what you look like when you're sleeping. And like we have never met a painfully sunny and awkward dawn together with all the choices of the night before. We will laugh at each other's jokes. Tell stories and look each other over like it won't happen again. But we always end up back here. And I'm always leaving early. Before your real day arrives to find me still in your life, hanging around, cluttering up your shelves.

"Just think of this and me as just a few of the many things to lie around, to clutter up your room. And I could make this obvious, and you, you could deny me all in one breath. You could shrug me off your shoulders. But I dare you to forget the marks you left across my neck from the nights when we were both found at our best."