I don’t think hearts really break. I think the heart begins to struggle, and then it explodes slowly inside of your chest. Like a vessel filled with ink of the days gone by, songs heard, moments felt. The colors start to bleed out from a deep-almost black red. Eventually blending into a dark teal or purple that plants roots from the chest into your neck, making it hard to breathe. You gasp for air, and suddenly the ink runs clear through your eyes, and down your face. Burning your skin just lightly enough to let you know you are still alive. And now you can see a little clearer.
If you survive (and you will), the roots begin to starve the more tears you cry, and they will break away, releasing you a little bit at a time. Until one day, all the black color casing the heart sheds it’s skin, and it returns to a pale, new gold color. Full of hope and light, like a newborn babe. Ready for anything, having no idea it was ever bleeding in the first place. The human heart I believe can withstand an immeasurable amount of endings, because it is always in the process of beginning.