Do we break things so we can mend them? How can we break something we love?
How do we bring ourselves to pick up the pieces, arrange them so they are the way they were and expect them to mend?
Maybe that is what love is about... Mending things that break... Putting the broken bits back together...
And when will mending not be enough? When will the glue called love not be strong enough to hold the broken bits in place... What then?
Maybe somethings are better left broken...
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