Is there any coming back from this?

There comes a point when you find yourself turning over in your bed, the warm rays of morning pushing open your eyelids.  You struggle come back from dreams.  You pull the blankets warm around you again, perhaps tugging them hard to get them free. You lay there and see that stranger, that man in your bed.  Who are you?  Do I even know who you are anymore? The thoughts that cross your mind as you lay there still so that you aren’t noticed.

How in the world did I end up here?  You try to push out those thought, try to make them seem a little less painful. There are worse things out there certainly. But yet you still question, still lay there and try to find a tiny bit of that romance that drew you in to the concept of love and marriage.  How did I lose all of those years?

What’s left of me? It all seems like such a waste now.   It’s all gone now.

The youth that you left behind isn’t ever coming back.  No matter how many times you stare into the mirror, trying to push those corners of your eyes back, the wrinkles aren’t going away.  No matter how many layers of creams and potions you layer on now nightly, that skin that you had as a beautiful young woman is long gone, traded for days at the beach watching children laughing in the surf.

Perhaps you wouldn’t give those times up for anything.  But you stare at him laying there sleeping soundly, and consider that perhaps more of those wrinkles came from the tears that streaked down your face night after sleepless night.  Those tears that stained only your pillow as you stared up at the darkness, while he slept peacefully and satisfied with himself for having the last word.

You listen to the sounds of the morning, and wonder if anyone would really notice if you just got up and left.  The sadness sinks in when you realize that it is likely that they wouldn’t… not until something was needed, something missing, or that someone that you lay there watching sleep has realized that his youth is as long gone as your own.

His face is no longer full of laughter.  His eyes, that once held you in his dark captivating stare, now are just eyes of a stranger.  He no longer looks at you when you undress with that gaze that said he couldn’t think of anything else but making love to you right then.  He mocks you for your tears, because he’s lost his ability to feel anything.

You wonder what he’d be like now if he were out there trying to find his way in the dating pool.  No longer the shy boy who’d been able to walk into the room and draw out those girls who wanted to wrap him up in their arms and touch his baby soft cheeks, he’s older now.  Grey hairs have invaded the field of thick black hair that once curled with impish laughter.  Yet vanity still keeps him cocky, as he passes the mirror admiring his slender body

Will anyone ever think of me as a woman of beauty? Do I want them to?  Perhaps not.. perhaps it would be better if nobody ever looked at me again.   I could deal with that.. deal with not having to worry if I please someone else’s ideas of what I should look like.

 You lay there longer and listen to his breathing sounds.  Your mind drifts away.  And you think of the days when you two couldn’t’ wait to be in each other’s arms.  When your heart beat so loudly in your ears that it made music that you danced to.

Yes, perhaps yelling and screaming is the only thing you know how to do anymore.

When the door slams, it’s not uncommon anymore.  It’s the soundtrack of your life.  It’s the sounds of you and him. Sobbing crying, screaming insults, slamming doors, those are what they hear now as the soundtrack to their lives as well, the song of their parents.

When you try to stop it, examine your life from a distance.  You shake your head in disgust at what a mess it has all become.  The next time you hear it coming, you stop.  You try to hold it back.  But it’s so natural now.  It’s so part of the life that you live.  You hate yourself for this, because you know that it is as much your fault as it is his.

You try to walk away, and yet the screams and mocking follow you up the stairs.  You find yourself so alone when you sit there on your bed.  This isn’t what you wanted.. not for him, and not for you. Now, everyone can see it.  They hear it when you talk, hear it pouring down the stairs when you two fight.  But it’s all there is.  Fighting is the only passion you two have anymore for each other.  It’s the only real emotions that you can come up with.

Is there any coming back from this?

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