The Makeshift Heart


Your heart’s a robust thing,

bulbous flesh

pumping eerily inside that

anatomy of perfect construction.

I wish mine is like yours

so we can see a pair of

pumping things

beat in harmony,

but it can’t, my heart can’t

— where a flesh is supposed to be

are a bunch of sticks,

its hapless form

supported by a hollow space,

where there is pumping

is a blinking,

a little light that grow,

glow into a shiny thing,

yet your heart of flesh and rhythm

don’t need this light,

the blighting glow cannot even hum.

Oh love,

I am sorry but,

it cannot love,

not with a makeshift heart.


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