Hearts are funny things.
They’re glass and scar tissue. They bend. They pump and drive and keep us going. (I’m not talking about blood. Maybe I’m not talking about those hearts.)
And hearts break. They shatter, in glorious starbusts, like mirrors, like precious art, like perfect skies. They snap and they mend and they crack again. There’s power in the cycle: fission, fusion. Trauma. Radiation. Apocalypse. Even broken, they break again. They dive and soar in equal measure.
And that is how I will measure my life, the summation of me: the heart breaks and breaks and breaks and stops.