I sweep up the pieces. Methodically and with the same rhythm of the feet that walked through me.
I gather them and I spread them out.
I touch and feel and remember each piece and who resided there.
I think about all of the places they took them and all that they must have seen.
And after studying and remembering and maybe imagining some of the history since I last pulled out my needle and thread,
I write. I stitch together things that were, I thread through myself the things that couldn’t be, and I plunge into everything that will never exist.
I come out of it shocked and sober.
I draw my heart into a Venn diagram of sorts and try to keep experiences separate.
The lines fade after time.
Sometimes I awake in the middle of the night and must sort through everything again because it has all slid to one side. I walk carefully, attempting to keep balance; the road is not smooth.
I cry. A lot. I flush out the sadness and fill myself with emptiness instead.
But then I feel hollow as if a breeze could pick me up and I might blow away, and I allow the thoughts of what was to weigh my heart down and anchor me; this heaviness leads to me ringing it out again.
Heartbreak is a vicious cycle that tears me apart but teaches me how put myself back together.
I also drink a lot of chai tea. I warm myself from the inside out. And do a lot of ballet. Discipline my muscles.
The most excruciating part about heartbreak, is that it is completely irrevocable. I do not, cannot, remember what it was like to not feel this way.
How did I sit still without my heart quivering and making a show of it with my trembling hands? How did I smile without feeling untrue to the inner most workings of me? Will there always be these cracks?