A broken heart cannot function. The main
organ to survival has been pulverized and made its host immobile. So is me. I
anxiously await days when smile and curiosity are genuine, when I stray from
the self-absorbed obsessive organism of myself and bask in something else.
Something more human. More humane. I stopped listening to people’s words weeks
ago. I can’t even hear them.
Hope is the only sustenance for an
otherwise hollow and emaciated heart. With this it scrambles for its other
pieces albeit solely, and fixes itself back. I end with this hope for hope.