So maybe he overstepped, and maybe he yelled a bit too loud, held you a bit too hard, said things he could never take back. So maybe he stormed out of the flat you shared, drove off, hooked up --drank one too many pints, smoked one too many cigarettes, left one too many calls unanswered. So maybe he did this one too many times but maybe he didn't mean any of them.
Maybe you didn't know, or cared one bit too much, cried one too many tears, hid one too many bruises. Maybe you stayed for one minute too long. Maybe he apologized one minute too late.
So maybe you disappeared and maybe he's lost without you, doesn't drink or smoke or yell. Maybe he gets up every morning just one minute too early, hoping to find you leaning against the counter, bowl and beater in hand ("Morning, sweetheart, breakfast gon' be ready soon") as you hum a song. Maybe he doesn't lock in the hope you will come back in the middle of the night, and rush into bed, afraid of the monsters. Maybe he doesn't wear socks to bed anymore, wanting to feel your cold toes bumping against his. Maybe he hasn't yet changed his phone number and maybe he goes to the store every saturday morning to see you there, inspecting tomatoes with a child in tow.
So maybe he still loves you, but maybe you don't love him back. And maybe he has to let it go, when a father to the child appears and puts a handon the the small of your back one saturday.
But maybe he doesn't want to.