Here, Now

Flowers.

He got me flowers.

It was not my birthday. I was not celebrating anything, I hadn’t done extraordinarily at anything recently. I had not lost anyone. It was not our anniversary; we were not together.

I love him.

I’m sitting here, at my kitchen table, flowers in a vase before me on my kitchen island, smiling. Just smiling. I reckon I’ve been smiling the last two hours. My cheeks ached. My heart cared not, my smile persisted. He’d been gone two hours.

I miss him.

I cared not that I did. Except for the times I did. Now though – I miss him. I wanted him here, now, holding me, or across the room from me, speaking, or silent, laughing, or crying. It mattered not how he came, or in what state.

No. It mattered. Plenty. I wanted him here, in my arms and myself in his. His words in my ears and mine in his. His heart in mine and mine in his.

I’m done for.

It was never meant to be like this. He had things to do, I had things to do. He had things troubling him, I had things troubling me. He has me. I have h-. Does he know? That he cannot just drop flowers by and move on. That he cannot be the reason I smiled yet the reason I hid it. That he could have me.