I would let you break my heart, again.
A thousand times even,
if that meant I got to spend more days with you.
I’ve thought about it before,
you and I reuniting after all this time,
the ocean of agony and joy I would feel,
the fear I would foster,
the lack of trust I would eventually shed.
I often think back to what you said,
when we smelled of campfire and despair,
about “not wanting to cause hurt” —
or was it “too much hurt?” Perhaps you said,
“I don’t want to hurt you more.”
Whatever it was,
I doubt you or I ever imagined this.
If you saw my hurt now,
would you recognize it?
Would you recognize me?
I barely do.
It’s all color and sound,
distractions and light.
I keep the cracks hidden,
buried beneath layers of pencil
and fidgeting fingers.
Would I worry about being heartbroken,
again, because of you?
Of course.
But how beautiful,
to be broken by the same person twice.
So It Goes 