He woke up this morning and wanted to die.
No reason really, certainly nothing to do with the fact that you were gone. True, you were only in the kitchen, but even inside him you weren't with him. You were onstage, inside out, waiting for those crowds to lick your bleeding heart and caress your hair till glitter fell. You weren't his lover. Lover implied equality, respect, affection maybe even (god forbid) love. You were Maxwell Demon fucking Curt Wild until he screamed, in and out, slick with swear, lube (blood?) and come, fuck him harder, come until you think your eyes might evaporate.
Scratch his back, ride him hard. Twist inside him just so – feel him jerk hear him gasp under you as tears cloud his eyes in pain (you knew it would hurt to move like that but you did it anyway, didn't you?).
Go on, pound him into that mattress and maybe if you're feeling magnanimous you can apologise afterwards, stroke his hair and tell him you didn't mean it. But he'll know you're lying and the only thing you're sorry for is that he might not be so willing to let you fuck him for a few days.
He hears you in the kitchen, humming ("I came down like water/for the age of solar") as you shift pans around searching for just the right one…He's lying spread on the bed, traces of your startlingly red lipstick on his thighs and cheeks. His eyes are squinched shut against the inevitable streak of pain that will blaze through him as soon as he shifts.
But then he'll smile because as sore as he is, at least you still want to fuck him. And when you (disinterestedly) call out, "Are you hungry?" his smile threatens to split his face wide wide open.