My Heart
I dig with maniacal gulps in cupped hands
fearful of what I might find.
Yet with furrowed brow I dig further, deeper,
lips moist with perspiration.
Your shadowed visage then emerges clearly
as death on the mortician's agenda,
perceived as innocuous enough
while signaling for death's knell.
My fingernails crust with darkened earth
and my arms weaken with overexertion.
Dark soil keeps falling, covering my efforts
by acknowledging the futility of it all.
And then I find it.
My heart lies still, glaucous and milk-like,
devoid of living blood's flush as my face grays
with the revelation that it, with you, is gone.
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