It sits besides me impatiently at the carpool.
Waiting at the stop light, when there's nothing on the radio.
"You should visit more often."
It lingers at the couch while I'm numbing myself with TV.
When I'm writing a text, to you or another.
"It felt good to see you last night."
It feels heavy when I stand awkwardly at the soccer practice.
Haunts me when I say good morning or goodnight.
"Would you like to come over tonight?"
It sticks in my throat when I think you look lovingly at me.
Or when you try to fix that place on my car that always sticks out.
"I have room for you at the table for dinner."
It stares disapprovingly when I light another cigarette.
It's at the bottom of another glass of vodka.
"The boys miss you."
It hits me when I least expect it, yet stays in my mouth.
"I miss you."
It hates me for not saying it.
"Come back home."