There's a girl in New York City who calls herself the human trampoline.
And sometimes when I'm falling and flying and tumbling in turmoilI say "woah, so this is what she means."
She means we're bouncing into Graceland.
Paul Simon
Friday night, you called with an agenda in mind. We talked and talked and talked. About, what else? Us. This was your setup -- slow, ponderous, careful, sweet and most of all, thoughtful. But I know, even if you don't, that there is no gentle way to push a person off a cliff.
You said we're seeing each other too often, that you didn't feel for me the same as I did for you; the scales are unbalanced and you didn't wish to mislead me. Things could never work between us anyways. My family would never accept you. Also, you are a believer and I am not. Seeing my opening I tried to negotiate my way into your life.
Finally, mercifully and for me, painfully, you blurt out the obvious: "But, I'm not attracted to you! Then, "Oh, my God, that was too harsh..."
But I understood and still understand: You find me "intellectually stimulating." I cried and suffered quietly and carried my side of the conversation for the entire two hours that we remained on the phone. You never once hinted that you wanted to get off the phone, despite the circular and mind numbing nature of our talk. Then, when I could stand to hear no more of the truth, I said, "It's getting late."
As I hung up the phone, I curled myself around my comforter and cried in silence. I rapped my knuckles to my forehead, mouth wide open, silently saying the same word over and over again.
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