Bile

He had this habit of swallowing all the cruel things she said, all the cruel things she did that left his heart dead. He had this habit of following this digestion with the internal suggestion that his heart was left whole, a reminder that the remainder of this division left him ok. Wrong or right as this was, with his heart whole, it was impossible not to love her. She once asked him if he thought they would always be friends. Her with her instinctive life, refusing to look past tomorrow, daring to ask the truth about what he felt about the future. Honestly, he loved her so much, that whatever she did to make him stop loving her would be enough to make him hate her. All the words, all the jealousy, all the boys with their limbs and voices, all her choices, these things he swallowed, would come back up as bitter bile. All of the hurt would squirt from his heart, his mouth, his eyes. When the spew left him empty except for the taste of her in his mouth, dripping out to stain his sheets, he would lift his head. He would kiss her and ask her if she liked the taste of her bitter past.