I guess I tried the poem first. I used to write poetry to her all the time. I compared her to angels; I lamented my inability to write about her beauty. So, I tried again.

Moonlight in your hair
flaxon, beautiful and faire
standing on your stoop
I wonder if you care.

You held me in your arms
and then I felt alarm
and now I am retreating
from pain and hurt and harm.

It was fake. It wasn't even a good poem, but it was superficial on top of that. It was horrible; it made me cringe to think of how she would have to pretend to love it. It's been so long since I've written about her... so long.

"DIE LOVE" A pierced heart, dripping with blood. I was never much of a sketch artist, either. I stuck to simple drawings, when I had to. I'd never taken an art lesson in my life, and I didn't plan to, either.

I wrote some lyrics. Radiohead was my favorite band. Bush was hers. Both songs seemed out of place. I used to sing "Motion Picture Soundtrack" to her all the time, while playing guitar. It sounded hollow now - empty.

She hated math, but I love it. She was always the dreamer, while I was always the logical one. I found solace in the predictability of math equations. My heart rested easily in the bosom of proofs and theories. I could not be spontaneous, which is I had to write down what I wanted to say.

At the bottom of the page was written, in my hand:

I want a divorce
I won't be home ever
I hate you

I picked up the phone and dialed home. Then I heard her voice.

"Hello?"

I froze. I couldn't do this. I grabbed my eraser and scribbled furiously. Then I rewrote another message.

"Honey? Is that you?"

In a shakey voice I said, "Still at work."

"Oh, ok. I guess you'll be working late again. I can't wait to see you."

"Love you."

"I love you, too."

There was a click as the line was cut. It took all I had not to cry. I guess this would be just one more day. One more day of being late.