Heart-to-heart
Others like to boast of broken hearts
as if trophies, their own now dead
and fractured into a multiplicity of parts
cast aside and buried.
They cultivate an artificial tear
conjured from a misty eye,
the outcome - it would appear -
of the mortal wound from a fatal lie.
My stubborn heart, kept artificially alive,
still misses beats now you are gone,
its sole remaining task to give
voice to being irretrievably alone.
Yet what of this does your heart see
immunised against the plague of my agony?
