The Beauty of a Broken Thing

19 April 2011

I feel a deep, yet dull, sadness  when I think of you ~ a hollow man, a black hole that devours everything substantial in its path. When sparing my life meant leaving you, my heart felt as though it dried up. You remain, to me, a question without an answer, a perpetual white-hot flame burning my heart, from the inside, out, and eating away at my soul. So many times you left me, leaving only your enormous absence. What of our love, if such a fragile entity ever existed? I cannot say, because putting it into words would only destroy any meaning of what lay between you and I.

I have tried to burn up my memories of you, of us. But the ashes only reconstituted themselves back into memories, each time rendering themselves more difficult to burn than before. When I ponder the beauty of broken things scattered across the formless soul of our union, I see so clearly that the broken thing is you, and not our relationship, not our love. Our love distills itself down to my love. A broken you has no capability of love. And love cannot, does not, ever break itself. Your inherent pollutants consumed you long before you entered my heart and my life. No matter how much I loved you, I could never fill the vortex inside you. No one could.



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