You probably broke my heart a million years ago. You probably took it out of its feather lined case and smashed it into smithereens the very day I handed it to you. Or you may have tucked it safely inside your chest at first and waited for it to synchronize with your own. And then one day when you found that it had a life of its own and could beat outside your chest too, you may have decided that you didn't need it anymore. Perhaps you passed it on to someone else, like a bottle of wine or a fruitcake that does the rounds at Christmas. No one remembers where it came from or who first got it, but no one wants to hold on to it either. So they give it away to someone else who neither wants nor needs it. Giving is so easy, especially when it's something you don't want, to someone who doesn't want it either.

I'm not sure how or when you broke my heart because the only witness to the deed is now dead. And the dead do not speak, as long as the living do not listen. But break it you did and I've only just begun to realize it, as the blood slowly moves through my veins and reminds me that I'm still alive. I've begun to realize it now as I command it to do things and it does not obey me. So here I am staring at a limp, long-dead heart in my hands and wondering when it crossed the expiration date. Maybe, I should have stored it in the refrigerator instead. Like the stock cubes I have from years ago and still use even though they've outlived their "best by" date.

Perhaps every heart gets broken twice. First, on the day it's been stamped upon and put out like a cigarette butt by the one who smoked it until the end or took just a few drags. And again, when you finally stumble upon it in the dark and pick it up to discover that it's been finished for a while.