When the words-crafted blade stops,

suddenly,

inexplicably,

before its scheduled destination,

your heart is not sundered,

no matter how encompassing the pain.

 

It is broken, to be sure,

opened,

fissured,

but still of one piece, recognizable

as a vessel that once held Love,

and now has room to hold a new seed.

 

It can, might, and may take time,

seeming-ages,

incarnations,

or the time to walk around the corner.

Remember this while wiping tears aside:

Improbable is not kin to impossible.