The answer is a joyful noise.

Tell me about a broken heart.

Not the last one, but maybe the one before it... or before that one. Maybe the first one. Or the worst one. Or the way she smelled after the goodbye following the first kiss. When was the last time you saw her? When did you decide she wasn't so important? When did you decide the blonde would be dumb? How to adults carry on with so much baggage when I forgot how to love after the only heartbreak? Let me be honest about the only truth there is: I don't know what I'm doing.

Forget about me, for a second, here. Let yourself face the window and tell me about the way you did the things we've done, and how it was different, but how there is still room in your heart to learn to love differently. Can this be done? We sing together, a song irrhythmic and lonesome, worried and hurried and precious and simply ours. This is the song we started singing, with no interest in a duet. But the more you sang about the broken heart, the more I wanted to be the one to mend it, the more I wanted to clip your wings, and teach you that you don't need anything but fresh air to fly.

I remember tight rope strings snapping and reminding me what I was after and I remember how sorry I was when the silence set in, but I also remember the love flowing through my circulatory system like lightning wondering how long I could feel so good and this is why we love: to light up and turn on the world.

feel me?