I wish I didn’t feel so deeply. I wish I could silence my keen intuition. Maybe then I wouldn’t suffer heartbreak without glaring evidence. Instead I’m left to trust my gut and wonder if, maybe, this time I’d gotten it wrong.

This has never been the case. One sees the inevitable.

There are those of us who forgo the banal approach to heartbreak. We parcel our affection and deceit in easy to digest morsels, label them ‘love’ and steadily, patiently anesthetize ourselves so that, when the final death blow is dealt, we're cauterized from our emotions and numb.

Alone and devoid of our lover’s guiding hand, we’re reduced to little more than a clitic: seemingly independent yet wholly without meaning unless affixed to another. We don’t know how or when it happened—-and, in that respect, the cloak and dagger plan worked like a charm.

Humiliated and broken, we gather the debris scattered about our feet and gradually repair our lives. We assure our loved ones that we’re okay, that the experience rarely crosses our minds, that we’ve moved on.

But alone with our thoughts, we give way to our insecurities—-our sadness—-our dashed hopes. And like a teary-eyed baby bird with its slender neck craned heavenward, we await another morsel from the unseen hand of anyone willing to put us out of our misery.

I wish I didn’t feel so deeply. I wish I could silence my keen intuition. Maybe then I wouldn’t suffer heartbreak without glaring evidence. Instead I’m left to trust my gut and wonder if, maybe, this time I’d gotten it wrong.

This has never been the case. One sees the inevitable.