The broken heart is a remarkable thing:

it holds on to what it shouldn't, pines after what is gone, long gone; from what is there, chooses what is no longer there and, therefore, can no longer be had; languishes where gloom and anguish are; talks in its sleep and yet, is mute when asked to speak the pain out; slams the door on sunlight and insists on turning all the lights off because they are "too bright", and then complains of seeing darkness everywhere, trembling, like a sick heart, because the dark illuminates what should be obliterated, cloaks what should be suffered.