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Here’s a poem by Karen Kunawicz that would give one’s lachrymal glands some exercise.  This is for all those whose hearts have been broken and are still struggling to pick up the pieces.

What is the sound of a heart breaking?

It is the sound of someone curled up in a tiny ball crying softly in the night,

the sound of the first unwanted teardrop touching your skin,

it’s the sound of a telephone that doesn’t ring,

the sound of regret pounding inside your brain with every heartbeat,

it’s the whispers of toy animals he gave you.

It’s the shuffling of feet walking away from you,

the sound of your soul shattering into a million pieces

at recognizing the word “goodbye,”

it’s the soundtrack of memories torturing you,

it’s the sound of feeble hands trying to push back the obstinate hands of time,

it’s the sound of cherub’s dying breath,

the sound of all those years disappearing in the vortex of Cupid’s kitchen sink,

it’s the unrelenting plaintive baby meows of an abandoned kitten

outside an ignoring door.

It’s the sound of the rain that doesn’t ever stop,

the sound of all the doors shutting and closing in your face at the same time,

of raging, howling storms in the night when there’s no one there to hold you,

the sound of your voice as it screams back at you,

the echo of “I love yous” burning holes in you,

the sound your heart makes as it tells you to lie still because nothing

you will ever do will matter without love.

The sound of the waves of the polluted beach you went to as it moves from the shore and crashes inside your mind,

of the sniffles that make up your pathetic “SOS to the world,”

the cracking of the brittle black red petals from the sidewalk vendor roses he gave,

the sound of the music he used to make going to your gut.

The sound of things in your room being thrown around and landing on the floor,

the caress of kitchen knives on skin,

the sound your throat makes as you swallow your saltiest tear.

It’s the sound of your own voice calling out to someone who isn’t there,

of dying birds getting splattered on a city pavement,

of terms of endearment used a hundred times a day struggling to crawl into a vacuum of forgetfulness,

it’s the sound of your own sobs keeping you company,

it’s the cold, uncaring stillness of the air you share your space with.

Destruction isn’t always as noisy as bombs exploding.

Sometimes the ultimate catastrophes are as quiet as a feather falling on the floor of a Zen monastery.  No one else can really hear your heart breaking except you.