The Painted Heart, part I

When I was younger, a breaking heart felt like a rend in the universe. I could feel my heart cracking down the middle like a great boulder, the echoes like thunder in the wind.

Now, though, a breaking heart feels more like an old abandoned barn. Peeling and crackled paint flaking off and falling, silent, into soft, loamy earth. The creak and whine of withered boards straining against rusty nails, struggling to maintain a shape as outdated and antiquated as anything from the last century. Lonely and bleak, a skeleton of a frame waiting for the next storm to blow it down.

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