Our house still reeks of love. I think it always will. All the unsaid words and feelings, I can feel them floating around. You love me, you say. I believe you. Only that your love is biased towards your own self.
I toy with the idea of moving away. I know it will be difficult, but necessary for my self-respect. I wouldn’t be able to survive in this house anymore. My place of refuge, my place of solace, has turned into a prison.
I wonder if I would ever meet another man and fall in love. Again. It seems impossible. No man would be like you. And for me, love is you. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I couldn’t.
Our house reeks of love. I think it always will.