We Are The Massacre

He pattered about the room aimlessly, prodding clothes, and hanging towels. She lay in bed, silently waiting. In the pale blue tube light coming from the ajar bathroom door, she saw him sigh, hang his head, and make his way to join her. He lay with his back to her, much like always. In the darkness, she sidled over, and held onto him, arm clinging to waist. She latched on with a vice like grip, and sobbed into his shoulder. Her tremors shook the bed, but stir he did not. Her quiet soliloquoy continued through the night, until a restless sleep consumed her noise.

When she came to, the crook of her arm was empty. His clothes and all his other belongings were gone. All of him; it was all gone. All, except for the faintest trace of Polo Blue still dream-dancing around the room, and the salt-stains left on a damp pillow. And traces in the air of the pain he carved into his flesh, in the death of the night when her tears waltzed unknowingly with his.