Soldier Girl.

Step off the winter train and after a slip of a rarely-touched stiletto, after the hauling of luggage, he greets me, with a kiss and weary smile.
After the words have only strung to create two lines of senseless nothing, a car drive lasting one hour and twenty, he opens the door and drops the key and stares at the inner house, as if ashamed it's been empty.
Let me paint the picture for you. The kitchen is bleak, a bowl, spoon, glass for one. The living room smells of dust and pizza and cold.
The letters on the television remote are worn. The stairs are pained by an imprint of the same size shoe. Also, the hallway light is broken, and in his eyes there's a blank glaze of boredom. His lips are dry, and my heart is pulled, from it's boned cage and beating, neon, in the space between our skin.
We move across the floor, nervous actors on a horror film set.
In fetal or fatal positions on the sofa, clinging as if every breath is vital. And the world moves by for days, and the interaction is sincere and the communication is relaxed. We've known each other lifetimes, it would seem.

And the Spring train arrives, and I leave, and tormented and realistic and prepared. The words, the handwritten letters, the agonizing ticking of sand-covered watches begins again.