My darling, a card lies drying on my table. It's for your boyfriend. Well, one of them. The only one I liked.
He of the broken heart. Literally, broken. So broken he will need an operation to fix it.
That's how much.
I made him a card I will put in his hand tomorrow if I see him. Along with some money. Very little. I have very little money on me at the moment.
But what is money, anyway? It's everything when you need it to pay for an operation. It's everything when without that operation, you die.
He looks at me, we acknowledge each other's presence. We're not enemies, but allies in this scourge. We both dove for cover, we tried to self-protect, but you were relentless.
Lustrous, shining, as hard as diamond, we threw ourselves against you, and we ended up...
Well you saw how we ended up.
Him nearly dead. Me still dying.
I will put this card into his hand, with the appropriate sentiment. (Did you know I've taken to painting? It makes me feel closer to you. You used to paint, once upon a time)
But how does one commiserate a fellow broken heart?
I write in the card, follow your heart.
But should he?
Look where it got him.
Look where it got me.
My darling, when the paint dries, I shall outline the words, Happy Heart Day which surround a blood red heart. The rest of it I painted swirly waves of pink and yellow. Just because.
And I shall write inside:
The heart is so easily mocked, believing that the sun can rise twice or that roses bloom because we want them to. In between freezing and melting. In between love and despair. In between fear and sex, passion is.
And I'll give it to him.
But I mean it for you.
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