The Broken-Hearted Toy You Play With

I tried and I tried...

I wanted to know why she called.

I wanted to ask if she was worried that there might have been a tiny part of my heart she hadn't smashed into tiny bits.

But I didn't say those things.

I didn't say how hurt I was by the way she acted.

She said she thought she saw me.

She hadn't. I was nowhere near there.

In fact, I won't go back there. That place is haunted -- by memories of her.

So, no, I wasn't there. I was hundreds of miles away.

Doing something else. (And if I thought of her that night, well, I wasn't going to admit it. Not then and not now.)

The next night I dreamed about her. And the dream was so vivid, so real, that I knew some of the details about her in the dream were true.

And I wish that I'd never had the dream. Maybe then she wouldn't have called.

And then I wouldn't feel like my heart was being broken into tiny pieces all over again.


And how the hell did she know?

How did she always seem to know?

And why can't I ever seem to get back there?