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.