The Loneliest Of Them All
The whitest of white walls, staring back at me as I recount the numbers of tiles that lead to it. My '50 Shades' notebook with multiple sunglasses wrapping around it is open on my white comforter, next to that black coffee stain from the Colada you spilled that one morning. I'm biting down on my pen like I haven't eaten in days, probably haven't. I have friends I could call, writing I could do, chicken and rice I could cook, parents who would like to hear from me. But all I want is for you to call, for you to notice, for you to understand the twisting, tearing, bloody ache inside of me that just waits and waits and waits.
I'm withering away, while you're out on another shoot. I'm dying, while you're doing the one thing that gives you life.
My mascara stains my white sheets, my journal falls to the floor, my pen leaves my mouth.
They call, wanting me to move back to New York City.
No more calls for the rest of the night.
I make my first decision in two years without you.