PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Forlorn he looked, standing there on her porch, guitar case in one hand, duffel bag in the other. She had seen him a few weeks earlier when they had spent a dreamy weekend together before he headed out on an east coast circuit.

"I've left."

"You've left". She offered no inflection only repeating what he had said, wondering silently what havoc this might wreak on her fondness for solitude.

"I've left everything… her, the business, all of it."

She stepped aside to let him in the door. He laid his things on the couch, looking to her for any sign as to what she might be feeling. They had never really talked about this scenario. She'd accepted that he was married, and he that she valued her autonomy. If there was any discontent in either of them, neither gave it voice so as not to taint the precious time they had in each others company.

She nudged the tension, "You know I was ok with our arrangement."

"No you weren't. The arrangement is a lie. My marriage is a lie. Our being apart is a lie."