The first heart jumped-- beat down
against your settled gut, replete
with a little lovelorn lateyear ambition. I'm not saying it became yours then:
but the familiar knew a new death,
and in that instant each cell
flowed with new acrobatics. You left me with the second heart
careless in its skips and turns and, worse,
stitched hollow with your absence. I became the artist of my own desolation,
flung it angry from my ravaged chest, let it
splatter reckless on the empty canvas,
our precious past made spectacle. This third one's my own. Homegrown,
every cry and moan echoed
in the ebb and return.
A little cliché. I had trouble anthropomorphizing a heart so I empowered the "I" instead. I should learn to be more comfortable with that, though, so I don't fall into the first person trap all of the time. Darling, let's not speak of love:
leave it to charm.