“Was it hard?“, I was asked.
Letting go?”
“Not as hard as holding on to something that wasn’t real”, I replied.
‘ What did you do then?’, I was asked again.
“He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry ”, I quoted ‘the little book thief’. I went back to that boy, who has become a man, and cried. Not because someone broke my heart, but because I realized that without the boy/man who steps on my heart, I was missing a piece of myself…he is the only one who makes that aching, gut wrenching emptiness fade away.
the accidental sufi 