The goal was for it to be perfect.
Almost real, almost pulsing, almost beating.
You asked about it today-
My heart locked away in the garage.
You asked why it wasn’t finished and if it had chambers and veins.
The last time I touched it, I cut it open just beneath the aorta.
I want it to told something- pennies, pens, keys, lint
My perfect pocket size chaos.
But I can’t touch it.
Refuse to unwrap the hard clay
Afraid that I will notice the little imperfections
Perhaps the shadows won’t hang like they do on perfect autumn afternoons
Or the veins won’t curve like the hips of a secret.
I have not seen my heart in weeks
Because I just might