Like a crime scene
Sometimes I'm surprised by how dense I am; I finally came to this conclusion a short time ago. When I fell in love with the woman of my dreams, I was asking something her heart could not in a million years give me. I was asking her to fix what had happened to me over the many years since she was last in my life. I was asking her to erase that intense pain. How unfair of me to ask that of her. She is a beautiful and capable woman, but she is not capable of fixing what she did not break, nor was it fair of me to ask such a thing. She's not a surgeon. She's not a magician. She's not a healer. She's many things, but she cannot put my heart back together. When I sat with her in a Mexican restaurant some time ago, I grabbed my chest and leaned in, saying, "My heart is like a crime scene." Any sane woman would have run if she had heard that. Maybe she did want to run inside, but she politely sat there with me. What a shithead I was. I didn't have ...