When my heart broke, I tried to remind myself that there were still beautiful things in this world.  Beautiful things more important than love.  Like mothers who cared for their children, or mountains that grew past the clouds, or men who built shrines to speak to God.  And even more magnificent things, like stars expanding past the universe, and music that echoed inside the chest of man.  These were all still there.  They hadn’t disappeared. Even though it felt as if parts of my soul had been erased away, I was still here too.

And so I walked on.

I lived on.

But every so often,

When I feel the wind blow my hair, or I smell the earth after it rains, I hear a whisper behind me,

It’s not.

And I stop to listen again,

It’s not.  Nothing is more important. 

I’m too afraid to turn around, frozen on the wet pavement, because I know that if I see your face again, it’ll all come crashing down.

The mountains will split open, the shrines will crumble, and the music will pause.

Because If I allow myself to be sentimental, and turn around for just a moment,

I would see you standing there, with my heart in your hands, and I would believe you again.

And as histories repeat themselves, we would do the same.

So I ignore the whisper.  I pull my coat tighter around my waist, and I continue on my way.

My shoes feel a little heavier, and the cold bites a little harder, but I question if perhaps I felt a flutter inside my chest for the first time in a long while.

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