A Thought

The Wanderer left this morning, back on tour for another week.

It's a pattern I'm used to now - Saturday nights, waiting for him to get back from some far-flung corner of the country; the snatched Sundays, precious and fleeting; the inevitability of Monday mornings when he has to leave again. He only goes for a week at a time, but it's little consolation. It feels as if half my intestines are ripped from my body every time he leaves, plus my heart and one of my lungs. I can't breathe when he's away from me.

I feel a void when he's gone.