Stupid Little Hearts

Our hearts
are just these ugly things
that beat inside our chests
unaware that they are
merely an engine
that powers the body
that encases them—
it’s the whole body
with its weight
and height and mass
that knows the spectrum
of life and love and loss—
and it isn’t the heart
that’s left empty
after love commits its ruin—
it’s the hands,
with nothing to do
but hold on to each other
for comfort and company
as they remember
their capacity to feel—
if it were only the hearts
that lay broken after love
takes its leave,
we would recover quickly
as though we had
a skinned knee,
or a sprained ankle at worst—
No—it’s the entire body
that breaks
around our stupid little hearts—
those mindless cogs
pounding like the fist
of a madman who never stops
when we want them to.





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