6am on a Wednesday

I watched as he pulled his pants back on. The pale daylight bathed his frail frame. This was how I woke up every morning, to my ex pulling his clothes back on and storming out of my house with his latest conquest. It was destine to never work, and I know it, but I still can't fully kick him out of my life. The lines of my angry frustrated scratches slid down his back like bright violet streamers. He lit a cigarette and turned to me. That vacant stare and those beautiful periwinkle eyes were looking down at me looking up at him. He shook his head, as if he was disappointed with the fact that he woke up to me again, grabbed his iPhone, and stormed out again.