I like to imagine that somewhere
there is a little old man
sitting bent over a table with
a bright bare lightbulb swinging overhead
and he has thick convex glasses and his
wrinkled slender hands work day and night
to fix discarded broken hearts

Sometimes he stitches them together
or for the really hard cases he uses glue
and when he finishes he smiles
selling the repaired hearts for twice market price
because hearts that have loved with abandon
and loved deep enough to be broken in the first place
deserve to be treated as a precious thing of value



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