The Games We Play

After all these years, I see your name on my caller-ID, and I still don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Do I want it to be you on the line; the same voice it's always been; the same words that weren't enough then and are even less now? Do I want to give up this endless game of cat-and-mouse? Do I want to stop being pursued and for once -- maybe -- just let you win? Or do I want it to end once-and-for-all and just let you fade into oblivion like those who came after you?

The truth is obvious, at least to me. I have a soft spot for you, for this game that we keep playing. It's a chink in my armor. Maybe it's because you knew me before the armor was built. But really, I think it's because the armor was built because of you. And that maybe I designed it with a lock that only fits your key -- yet still, you can't figure out how to open it. But that's because you've always been a blunt instrument, and I've always been a complicated puzzle. That is our greatest tragedy.