You pick up these people 

From the broken side of the blvd. 

They are collections of shattered glass- maybe she was once a beautiful vase.

Or torn up paper- maybe he was once a beautiful poem.

Or spilled paint- maybe he was once a.. Well. you get the picture. 

And you try to glue them back together 

and tape them up 

and pour every drop of them back into tubes of their once-whole hearts. 

 

But then you realize: you cannot make them whole again. 

The glue will not hold and the tape will not stick and the dry paint can never flow again. You cannot make them whole again. They can never be the same again.

And this breaks your heart to tiny bits of glass and paper and paint.

 

And I'm simply terrified that at the end of this blvd. where I stand waiting under the street lamp, you will arrive at my feet: 

a pile of bloody hands and chapped fingers, covered in mixtures of unknown colors. 

 

But this is when I will realize that you will never be the same again.

Because you cannot leave these people on the broken side of the blvd.

And I will live my life, forever loving a broken soul; trying the glue and tape to clean you up and make you whole.

And I will realize you will never be the same again. 

But I will always love your brokenness,

because it is evidence

of your unmatchable compassion.

And we, My Love, will never be the same again.