Does the heart ever really repair itself,
Or does the underlying sense of something lost stay with you?
Does every person and beloved place take a splinter of your love and keep it with them?
Is that why we go back to these people and places,
In our minds, our dreams, our cars, our phones?
To find the missing pieces and try to snatch them back,
So we can feel untarnished and wholly prepared to go into the world.
Perhaps our individual sense of vulnerability comes from the fact that we know we are internally shattered
And by some unknown substance
Have been carefully and tentatively glued back together.
Are we afraid that the absent, splintered shards of our hearts have necessary components of who we were?
Are we afraid that leaving and losing pieces of ourselves to the past is a terrible nod to the omnipresence of death?
I don’t fucking know.