She cries when I leave the room. A deep, mournful cry. A terrified screech that sends me running–mutilated abs and all–to rescue her. I can’t make her understand that when I leave, I am never gone.
I will be back.
She only remembers that I left her when she was most vulnerable. Naked, new, wet. Unoxginated and grey. Cold.
I left her. And she remembers. Our hearts aching for each other. An early wound, so impossible to forget. But I did come back. Parts of me, at least. The rest continues to emerge.
“I’m not leaving you. I will always come back.” I hug her close. I whisper it in her ear to calm her cries. I want her to believe it. To accept it as truth. But deep down she knows that some day those words will prove to be lies.
I won’t come back.
She knows the pain. And she fears its return.