A half-tame cat. A yo-yo. A gypsy of the heart. What I mean is she was never mine. I always shared her.

It always started the same. She had an eye for the wild guys, the dangerous men, conquistadors of the heart. I would always tell her no, but what is my word versus a motorbike? Whilst far from a normal man myself, I am not a Chi Master or a Handsome Actor, and so my word is second. I am a poor theatre with little convincing evidence.

I am ashamed to say I do not remember ever defending her honour. I am a small-framed guy. I do not know how to fight and not get my ass kicked. So I would just sit back and offer advice. I may not have been particularly unbiased. Every complaint of character meets a suggestion of separation. We talk online about the real world, but in the real world, I do little talking.

Then he breaks her heart. Oh, inevitable. I will always be here to mend your broken heart. Let it all out. Why is everyone like him? Cry on my cathartic shoulder. Fall asleep.

Now we practice being whole. You hold my hand. You sit on my chest and draw lines with your fingers. Trace scars across my chest and imagine your own. Oh, I'm so skinny, it's just what you like. Eventually, we will tire of this game and you will sleep. I am out of touch, but we practice for weeks. The warmth of your body fogs my memory, but I'm sure I hear you sob.

Then one day you wake up, and by breakfast, you have found a new man. But it's alright, he's different than before, it's not the same.

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