A return of sorts.

He sleeps. Not so silently, in a way that is not entirely peaceful, only a few doors away.

I've forgotten. When did this become real?

When did the fighting, the disagreements, become legitimate. When did the slammed shut doors graduate from mere dramatic gestures. It has become, this has become something beyond imagination, far more than some sub-conscious game of power plays.

Finality approaches.

Discontent is a frequent dinner conversation where over parsed words and steamed asparagus separation is suggested.

And I almost did it. I packed a series of suitcases, I felt ready. But, I'm still here, still somewhere where letting go feels like an impossibility.

Sleep for me does not come so easy, not even the sordid kind. I revel in the after midnight hours listening carefully to the dramatic gestures of an old, creaky house. The minutes move fast as my eyes beg for some kind of relief, but I ignore it, enjoying the solitude his troubled slumber brings. I hear his breath rise and fall out of rhythm. He mumbles something, the over washed sheets rustling as he settles on his other side.