If it is such a virtue, why does it make me feel sick?

Today I came home to an empty apartment and a restless mood.

I walked to the coffeeshop and came back with a sickly sweet brew.

I never wanted anything more than I wanted you.

I came home and locked my door, two bottles opened and the brew better for it.

Ice, Monk's hazel, a little bit of the devil's touch (over ice) in a plastic glass.

I kicked off my shoes, and I put someone else's dreams on the stereo and stretched out on my spacious and empty living room floor.

And I laid down and felt heavy, weighed down by the contents of my pockets and my soul. My soul I can't empty but my trinkets were useless since the work day was done.

I put them on my coffee table, one by one, and when I came to my phone I turned it up as loud as it would go--I was straining my electronic ear, listening for you, perhaps for her, perhaps for any of them.

and I laid down again, and my mind was restless inside my head, and my heart restless inside my chest.

And for the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time since things changed, I found myself impatient.