Things aren't what they used to be.
I realised this in the cold morning light, the skyline of Manhattan in the distance, the sun rising red, red, red.
The colour of passion.
The colour of love.
A shade of what we used to be.
My fingers caress the silk sheet on your side of the bed, your cologne lingering in the air even after three days.
You work hard.
You work late.
But I do, too.
I work just as hard as you. I am just as successful as you.
But I never strayed.