I think that we die from a perforated heart.
Our capacity for love is vast but our hearts do not ever-expand, on and on like the universe. Our hearts are finite organs. Death takes a piece of us. Time doesn’t close the wounds but leaves a hole with ragged edges. A black space that forever yearns for the person that left this world.
And we can only take so much.
Age and disease has no power quite like loss. So when finally our hearts are nothing more than flaps of flesh, we succumb and we meet our end. And we hope we will find the missing pieces somewhere on the other side.