She walked out the door fifty-seven minutes ago — you know, because you’ve been counting the seconds. She said she was going home; never mind that home has been right where you are now for the past several years.

And then before you know it you’re running through this suddenly foreign feeling city and you realize all these things about yourself - things that hurt you, things that confuse you. You’re a desperate man.

You don’t even know if you love her after all of this.  You think you do.  You do.  Don’t you? 

What you do know is you’d do anything for her, absolutely anything in the entire world, and you tell her this time and again. She laughs. You laugh. It’s a running joke between the two of you; only with you, it’s the truth. You attempt to play it off, to make it trivial as if you’d do it for anyone.

You tell yourself you’re a considerate, caring, compassionate person. You tell yourself you love everyone equally. You would do it for everyone. You would. You would. Would you?

You know you wouldn’t… and that’s why you’re out the door in a flash, grabbing the keys and racing through the streets trying to find her, the only thing that holds you together; the only person that makes you feel whole, like a real human - like a nice person. With her you are at least half of what you wish you were. We never learn, do we?

Never forget, you invited her in.