All men have broken hearts, I told her, and she asked me about the last woman I loved. I lost her, I said. I’m sorry, she said.

It happens, one of us said.

All men have broken hearts. I should have said: but some of us have learned to love in spite of it.

My friend, blood shaking my heart.

A man is always in love with everyone he has ever loved, and nothing he can do will root out one ounce of that love. With time the memories cease to be near the surface and so it may seem that the love has gone its way in peace, but this is as untrue as spatial distance, and whenever he sees her again his memory will allow his blood and bones to talk again, to say what they have always known. It will by necessity be different, but no less strong, and the only thing that permits him to keep moving is that as he grows older his loves become stronger.

Which an age of prudence can never retract.

All men have broken hearts, but some of us have learned to love in spite of it: we are willing to be broken as often as it takes until we are put together properly.