I want to know why you’re broken, why your edges are worn and jagged. I wish I knew what love was because I don’t think I do. I’ve been loved in pieces and blips but never a sustained love that holds on through the times when cracks splinter me into nothing. But, then again, cracks aren’t easy to reveal especially now in this time of silence that envelopes me like a morning fog. It’s always so fleeting and feeble and never that selfless love that some say exists. Does it exist? Maybe for parents and children but not my parents or their children. I think I am unfixable, that my pieces are so tiny that they will never again be whole. These shards of love don’t hold enough water to float and grow and I wonder if that’s why I can’t love him the way I love you. You stitched me together but has he? I know the answer is yes so why can’t I feel for him the way I feel for you? It’s startling when the absence washes over me, like my lungs filling with water or fire or something that stops up my breath like mud in a drain. And you are there and not there and I feel guilty and sad and exposed and hidden, and all I want to do is kiss you and hold his hand. I don’t think I know what love really is. If I did, I would understand why hearts tear and break and scatter bits of brokenness around instead of remaining living, moving organs. Because we can’t survive with pieces or even hearts tacked together by time and stagnation and promises of a future spent right. I don’t know what love is. Maybe I never will.