The Game

By , Los Angeles, CA
Far gone are the days of your literal presence in what was once my safe-house. Your ghost now invades my bedroom unexpectedly with half-hearted phone calls and text messages.

We, for some reason, still communicate phone to ear, but face to face, the would-be relationship disperses to your insta-friends and our once secret connection is shared among various upperclassmen who prove you with a fraction of the respect I am still willing to donate.

Donate, to the charity of "us", or what once was. Because that is what it seems this has transformed into. Your bi-weekly charitable donations to my blackberry, dreadfully keeping "us" alive.

You drag me along by my heartstrings with our micro-second glances, leaving me to wonder- Why, exactly, are you still playing the game that has become "us?" Part tug-of-war and part hopscotch, you tug your way into my mind on Monday, but lightly skip on one foot over to another suitor by the end of the week.

As I religiously check my phone for the seventh time that hour, I wonder if I should continue to play this game that is no longer for children. Blended with not-so-significant others, strayed eye contact as we pass in the hallway, and the occasional held hand, I am now fighting the front lines in the battle that is heartbreak warfare.





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