The pain of a broken heart who can mend, and who would want it mended when suffering is solace?
I can think of no other injury to the spirit which manifests itself so fully in the physical than this. That we sense a mortal wounding and declare our death, sure that life and joy have slipped through our fingers like sand too fine to grasp.
This heart is a healthy muscle, doctors proclaim, to our silent astonishment. Yet inside our chest a pain clenches and crumbles, gnaws and weeps, mourns and bargains until our stomach is a pit where our heart lies… impossibly small and mangled at the bottom.
This price we gladly pay, do we not? We all know the cost of love going in, and love I will gratefully mourn. We do not lament the loss of the worthless, the meaningless, the unloved. And so it is in my lament I know the depth of my happiness and discover it once more, for in it I learn that I have loved exceedingly well.