Sepulchre in a sunrise.

Sometimes I don't know why I write anything at all. I'm a broken record. Or rather, I hold the record for breaking things.

Just a break
We could shrink to something
That might not make it back

He got down on his knees and pulled me in close, resting his head against my chest, my heartbeat his metronome. He didn't move as I held my breath, my arms wrapped around him, my lips against the top of his head.

I could smell the alcohol on him before he made it across the room so I knew the apology was coming. I could light a match and everything would go up in flames right now. I only asked for one thing and this isn't it. This isn't trying. This is falling into familiar patterns for Ben. Reaching for flammable creativity and liquid confidence. Reaching for the dark when the light is too blinding. Reaching for the rage because contentment feels alien and strange.

But it doesn't work and I can't keep time when my heart is skipping, rolling out the door, beating a hasty retreat instead of throwing a lifeline.