Finally: a Short story of a broken heart

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Finally, I told  our common friends about what happened between us.

It was mandatory: They’ve divided into a group which thinks you broke my heart merciless, and those who think that I wacky stalked you for several months.

I began to state that you did not broke my heart: on the contrary, you took it in your hands, cleaned the dust of disuse, and caressed it before gave it back to me, not without double check that it beats loud again.
a broken heart over a sewer
And that it was me, surprised of have it in my hands again, (you never expect to when you give it away) still warm from the contact with your skin, let it fall between my fingers, to broke in the ground in thousand pieces, with such bad luck of been standing over a strainer in that moment.

Of what I could save, I barely made half a heart. Seven years I walked with my incomplete being (I may tell you sometime how I completed the left ventricle after that time, if you wish me to) and I had to abstain to practice any sport.

The pieces I didn’t find wander in the culverts and drainages during several months, watching  the women in the baths through its coslopes, and even from time to time, some wet couple under the shower (my heart originally was blind, but the need to lose the capability of smell and the tact in the sewers sharpened all their other senses), many of them paid its curiosity covered with shit. Many fragments found their fate between the teeth of some rat, but most of them became hard enough to cross the digestive system of any rodent. Some found their way until the sea and healed their wounds with salt.
In fact, this told me a small sharp piece that I found in my recent visit to a famous beach come to less. It was a kindly and smiling fragment. In all this time, it took the charge of maintain a bond between all the pieces of my heart, insisting on hear their whereabouts from its excursions by sewers, the rivers and seas in which they end (one arrived as far as Chernobyl and prevented a second nuclear disaster. I want to believe that, because the exaggerated part of my heart definitively remains with me) in each opportunity, and taking a rigorous count of the fragments that had shown signs of life at the end of the year.

I put it back to my chest (do you realize what that means for a traveling heart?) and stayed staring the sea.

The first months, he was Insufferable: organized several attempts of break, in the most recent, almost kills us both, obstructing the carotid artery.

He cooled down as soon as I began to travel, trying to maintain contact between my old friends, insisting them to told me their whereabouts, and telling about of the others in each opportunity.

Nevertheless, I suspect that it has returned to the old ways, this time with a far more elaborated plan: from a time to here, I feel an overwhelming need to see you.

by Christian Pastor Cruz