I’m sorry you’re hurt, and I’m sad that you’re sad. We are bound by something, because I felt everything when I heard you wail in a tone that was so full of grief it resembled illness. And I wish I could tell you it won’t always hurt that bad but I don’t want to lie, you’ve been lied to enough. And others might say there are worse things and maybe there are but heartache is a bitter, spiteful pain that threatens you with a serrated knife to your virgin skin and teases you with a loaded gun to your head, invoking a heartbeat comparable to a war drum, until it cuts you deep and shoots you through your heart and spills your blood only to replace it with salty tears, pouring bleach over your open wound to satiate the sick need it has to taint your portrait as well as your biography. It won’t always hurt this bad, no. But I’m lying and you’re beautiful and I can’t even hold you. No, I can’t even sneak under covers with you to hide from the ghosts in our house, because these ghosts are alive and I don’t live there anymore. And I’m angry you’re not angry because all I see is defeat in the most hungry of hearts I have ever had the privelege to love.