2003-10-02 - 7:36 a.m.

'i am not my heart, though i do feel her pain'

It's past seven in the morning. And I'm still awake.

I have a feeling that if I had some alcohol in my system I'd be writing long long letters. Or maybe dialing old phone numbers hoping to recognize the sleepy breathing at the other end of the line. All before hanging up with my heart all in leftover pieces. Pieces left over from when it burst just then.

Because hearing his voice always fucks me up. My weakness wears his face. And it lulls me through his voice. And even though my mind knows that he's done me so wrong, my heart just thrums for him sometimes.

My poor heart just isn't as resilient as she likes to think she is. No matter how many times she's been hit by him, though, she always beats back. She loves him still, even as he leaves her bloody and blue. She does. But she's scarring. Scarred too deep.

And on the days when all I really want to do is find him, I think about my poor poor heart. And I wonder at just how many breaks she's got left in her before all that's left is a huge mass of scar tissue.

And somehow I just know it's not too many.

So I never reach out to him anymore. I leave the phone on the hook and his number in my little black composition book. Wise with the knowledge that ours is a story ended. And never to be reread.

�

previous - profile - me - rings - links - gbook - notes - next
all written material � jordorange 2003-2004