Most things are not impossibly beautiful.
Few things are uglier than heartbreak.
The snot and the bleary eyes and swollen nose,
The fleshy lips, the shivering, the choked-off sobs.
Lying in bed until three, making your hands into claws
As you cry, “Why” or throw dirty sweatshirts at the wall,
Or you dial his number except for the last digit.
This is not crystalline and lovely.
Your suffering does not make you rare and radiant,
You are no wild-haired prophet
Returned from the barren lands with honey-smeared mouth
And eyes full of wonder and terror.
No ravens will alight on your shoulder
and eat apricots from your outstretched palms.

There’s nothing left for you to do but this:
Assemble your life into something resembling order
And think, “everyone goes through this.
I am not unique.”
And you show up for work and wash the car
And howl inside yourself
And pick up your nice shirts at the cleaners.

A million others as pretty as you
Are dying inside over a million others
As amazing as he was.

But the other fish in the sea aren’t biting
And anyway, you never liked seafood.

Go to the coast at night, barefoot.
Walk in the wet, cold sand
And count the stars overhead.
Each impossibly beautiful.

Know that there is meaning in this
Meaning in something ugly and ordinary.
Like the sand beneath your feet.
Gather grains,
Apply heat.
Give away glass.

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