Leftovers.
I arrive home 10 minutes later to you plopped on the couch dinner in hand, stuffing your face.
Leftovers.
And you could not wait for me for 10 lousy minutes.
How I am so insignificant to you?
On my way out the door, "Love you."
Why?
You say this every day.
Words.
But they are hollow.
Completely and utterly hollow.
Like my heart.
