Late

He was late. 

The soft bed surrounding didn't do much to ease my worries.

He was late,

again.

The bed I was laying in was going to be empty another day.

Another day, 

alone.

Afraid. 

Knowing he's probably out cheating on me,

or maybe worse, 

maybe he's lying on the side of the road, 

dead. 

But how would I know?

It's not like he calls to tell me he'll be late.

Or why. 

Or anything.

It's not like he cares,

at all.