All hearts break differently and all hearts are broken. Not just by lovers, but by time and space and old photographs. By a phone call, a bank statement. A heart is broken by forgetting, or even worse, remembering. Little pieces of our hearts cling to our ribcages, like little shards of glass. Broken by force. The pieces look shocking against our bone. The kind of shocking that looks like it belongs.
These broken hearted people, they collect at crosswalks. They get on the bus, they get off the bus, and then they get on the bus again. They buy pineapple and crisco. These broken hearted people, they hurt. The broken hearts sing out in pain, in vain, and in remembrance of their shattered parts. The broken and incomplete hearts in all of us, they fall in love with each other. They fall in love with a woman peeling an orange. With a man biting at his fingernails. They fall in love with the quarter in their pockets. We fall in love with feeling complete.
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