I still like the way you look at me.
In the empty space between us, I feel the heaviness of our years together. They stretch backward and forward, invisibly gathering the peaks, valleys and plateaus of life with little regard for the toll they take on a person, on a marriage.
I am covered in spaghetti sauce stains and insecurity; my hair is knotted and so is the pit of my stomach.
Suddenly I am fragile. There are a few broken pieces on the floor.