Put it down, and step away.

I know that it's possible to have my heart broken, even in this day and in my age.

I can remember the heartbreak of youth; it was kind of like a knife to the gut; an actual, physical pain that lingered all through the waking hours, only to dissipate in the mists of Morpheus.

And the scar would remain; in fact, they remain to this day, and I look to them and point and say, "these scars I received on St. Crispin's Day." And the people of my generation, who attended those times with me will smile and nod and lift a glass to the times when we cared enough to have out hearts broken; and the youth that surrounds me will roll their eyes and wonder why anybody would care so much in the first place.

And my answer will always be the same: I care because I care.

But I've noticed that in my age, when my heart is broken, the pain is duller. And it only lingers in the mists of Morpheus; and it lacks a certain energy.

And it's less of a scar, and more of a bruise.

Yes.
It's easy to have your heart broken when you use your heart enough.

And even that dull pain gives me proof that I'm alive.
Which is not something I've been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt.

It's not often you want to thank somebody for the heartbreak.
And simultaneously want to punish them for it.

It's a long road.
I'll just keep walking.
And enjoy the memory of the company.

Fair enough?