I remember the long nights waiting, just waiting, and hoping desperately for your return. The days spent by the sun glazed window, my eyes straining for a glimpse- just a glimpse- of your mud stained boots or blood smeared clothing. Worse yet, I waited for the white flowers, the coffin, the message that you weren't coming back this time. But they never came, because you always did.

While you were gone, I would tolerate the men who swept through my house- no, your house… because I was yours, wasn't I?- and I would not speak against them; because I knew that if they left, you would leave as well, and I couldn't let that happen. Not when every part of my being coveted you.

And when you did come back, it was blissful. I reveled in the penetrating green gleam of your eyes, the curve of your lips as you spoke my name as if for the first time. Your uniform would not be crisp as it was before. There would be bandages, and you would not look me in the eye. You would embrace me, and I would be rude and coarse; my devotion screaming to be shown, to be revealed. But you knew, as you still do, that I couldn't allow that.

I did not voice aloud my distress; I did not grace you with my affection. Instead, I watched and I waited and I tolerated the reasons for your disappearances; the distractions that stole away your attention. I cursed at you, scolded you, and became irate with you, all the while trying to hurt you; trying to make you understand the pain you so mercilessly dealt upon me each time I was forced to watch you walk away. The pain that beat upon me like lashes, that threatened to overcome coherent and logical thought.

But, no. I was a fool to think that was pain.

Pain was the day the house was quiet. The sounds of the soldiers' raucous laughter did not wake me, and the cupboards were not well picked through. I heard, instead the clanging of swords, a thick German accent; one I had known before. Pain was the emptiness in the violet eyes that replaced your warm green ones. The scent of tea rather than spices. Pain was me knowing that you had lost me, that you had left me, and that you were not coming back.

Damned tomato bastard.