When you come back from New York, you feel like a stranger. It’s only been 10 days, but we are both broken in our own ways. You, physically. Me, still peeling off the armor I built myself around for almost 50 years. It feels too awkward to reach out to you and change the dynamic. But you keep your hand where it is, too, and I take that as a sign you do not want me. I want to blame you, but that is wrong and I am done blaming myself, so I just sit.

You think I’m mad, but I’m not.

I’m just stuck and waiting for the ice to thaw and break through myself to you.