a machine for breaking hearts

My son, eight, when the shadow of death first fell upon him

the first kiss of winter on his pale cheek

asked me “what’s the point of living if we’re just going to die?”

I told him all games come to an end, but they’re still fun to play

it’s not what I believe, but I try not to instil my own truths in him

they never did me any good

the world’s just a machine for breaking hearts

the darkness with no meaning

growing fat on all our goodbyes

it seemed that was all we were here for

unable to carry even a snapshot with us

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