Is Heartbreak Curable?

Is heartbreak ever curable? Would anyone with heartbreak want to cure it? If life means something because death brings oblivion, is it possible that love needs the pain of a broken heart to mean something? What can love mean, if love does not become heartbreak? Like the massive star, pulsing out heat and then contracting in cold, doesn’t love wish to end in a bang instead of a whimper? If love could choose its conditions, wouldn’t the first demand be heartbreak? Don’t I go beneath the sky looking for something that cannot be photographed or videotaped so I can remind myself that I search equally fruitlessly for love, that magical bind that only works when a lover is willing to let it go?

Don’t I hope for heartbreak? Isn’t heartbreak the continuous act of my life, rather than just its occasional punctuation and final full stop? Don’t I long for love, still, beneath the stars?

The sky in all its possibility, painted in all those forevers which stretch like meadows toward sunrise, contains love, I am sure. I will go looking for it. What else could I do?