There are no metrics for pain —
but we know it is possible to bend a heart without breaking it,
that sometimes sadness comes lightly,
we walk through it like we would a cloud,
                 unscathed by gloom and damp, there being no great loss —

so one can imagine hope as a shy flower, imagine the careless bicycle,
                 the heavy foot.
Think of the days you find you are a stranger
                 in the country of your own body.

Think of every single person you love in the world, hailing a taxi in the rain,
                 the sky dutifully wringing out every gray possibility.

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