I have felt the excruciating pangs of heartbreak.
I have witnessed the shattering of my heart into millions of puzzle pieces and have scurried to fruitlessly put them back together.
I have tried to fit the corner pieces with those having no straight edges,
wondering: when will I at least get the outline of my puzzle in place?
I have felt like the visitor of a foreign country,
not knowing this language of broken love,
never having feasted on meals of sorrow and tears.
I have walked down that historic road, in this foreign land, and wondered: how many have come before me to this place?
How, if they succeeded, did they begin to reconstruct the walls of their own broken hearts?
How did they live with only the hope that such a centerpiece would mend itself someday?
How did they stumble upon hope?
But questions lead to frustration, whereas answers lead to fruition.
And so I seclude myself.
Me and my puzzle.
Alone in a room.
Trying to alienate myself from the foreign world in which I am an alien.
Picking up knobby pieces…and there. I have found two that fit.
Their visible imperfections interlock; perfectly imperfect for each other.
And that is where I stumble across my hope.
Although it may still feel like I will never know love again,
I know bit by bit,
piece by piece,
my puzzle will be finished…
if only by the slow and cautious healing of time.