I must tell myself, over and over again, that all things must come to an end. Even the bad things.

And, though I don’t believe it with my mind, I believe in my fickle, breaking heart that my unformed tears, which are still floating around in the dark spaces of my water-logged soul, are being marked even now by someone who knows the number of the hairs on my drooping head. I imagine that when he stoops to catch my teardrops, which trickle off his favorite potted plant like rain, he catches them in glass vials and hangs them in his study next to his pinned insects on the wall. There is one vial in particular that he wears round his neck so that it touches the skin on his chest. In it is a bit of every cry I’ve ever had and will ever have. He keeps it there so that when he meets me, when he bends down so that his whiskers are tickling my face and his eyes are looking into mine, he will be able to say, “As you have felt, and as you’ve despaired, your loneliest fears have always been shared—flesh to flesh, heart to heart, all of it is yours as you are mine. I was always with you.” 
(But I know that none of this is true.)

I must tell myself…all things come to an end. Even the bad.