It is trite to speak of a broken heart. Hearts are not broken; they continue to beat, the blood still courses, even in the bitter after-days of betrayal. But something is broken when pain beyond words is suffered; some connection that formerly existed with light and hope and bright mornings is severed, and can never be restored.
Possibly, it is beyond human art to convey the sense of something lost, but eternally present, that such place inspire.
For I think I know who sets this watcher on me, and who it is that desires to know what I now know. He smiles, and asks me how I am, and he shines like the sun in the estimation of the world; but there is evil in his heart.
Michael Cox “The meaning of night : a confession”