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My resentment now borders on hate for Nate Butler, because I haven’t seen my wife in forty-three fucking days.

So on stage, I rage against him.

Rage against the circumstances in which we found each other.

Rage against the way I feel daily about her continued absence.

Rage against her inability to wage a war she won’t allow me to fight.

Rage against the promises we’re breaking every day we remain divided.

I rage against it all until the lights go dark. Exhausted as the applause explodes throughout the club, I exit the stage without a single ounce of relief. Joel meets me at the side of the stage, reading my mood in silent support as we walk toward the back of the club. In the next second, a tropical scent wafts into my nose as I’m gripped by the neck, and lips that don’t belong to my wife smash into mine. Pushing the woman who accosted me away by the shoulders, I assess her and jerk my chin. “Not fucking cool.”

Clearly drunk, she stares back at me with wide blue eyes, on the verge of speaking before Joel gently takes her by the arm and away from me, handing her over to security.

Joel joins me again as I stalk toward the dressing room, bypassing everyone, including my mother. Slamming myself inside, I fume at the fact that my wife is no longer the last woman to kiss me and that security was stolen from me. In the next breath, I begin to wonder if she’d even fucking care.

You can always find me,

in your own story

Lost and found

Our whispered confessions

A thousand hours apart

For a few seconds longer

Found then lost,

Remember our story,

Our screaming secret

Every memory pushed inside you

A thousand hours apart

For a few seconds longer

Replay our past

To destroy seconds of theirs

Erase their memories

To consider our future

A thousand hours passed

To earn a few seconds longer

You could have found me

In those thousand hours

Waiting

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