Never so pure a love for deterioration has ever existed; mordicant. I bore it in me; in my heart, my gut, my womb, it grew – fresh but caustic. Toes curled and breathless. Undertaking every hedonistic act as a sacrement, proof of devotion I cried – for him for his loss for mine. To experience heaven and then face perfectly locked doors and lost keys lost interest. I left what was left of my heart on the stoop. Tried to slide it under the door but it was too thick so I left it and walked away. I guess I had this notion that hearts regenerated endless until the day you die you love and love more and leave little pieces of it here and there and it grows more pieces and pumps heartily until it doesn’t and then you’re gone. They don’t. It’s not like that. Hearts, they grow stronger the longer you hold onto them, the longer you use them, but you can’t grow new pieces, you can’t grow a new one. So that space filled mordicant stinging and birthed banality. I like to think he held onto it – that heart that I left behind. That it sits on his shelf next to Bataille’s “The Eye” and he watches it when he fucks people. Talks to it when he’s drunk and goes swimming with it when it rains. He knows that I love to swim when it rains. When the town was flooding and the power was out and the sky was raging with thunder and sudden flashes, he took me to the pool and stripped. He helped me lose my clothing and we dove headfirst into the choppy chlorinated waters. I never found those pants again. They left with the floods. I like to think that he blows smoke over my heart on shaky mornings and remembers a version of me – the version that I like. Under his precise eye I am my ideal self, the self that fronts my reflection and pushes me out the door in the morning to greet every new and cloudy day. Or so I imagine. Perhaps my heart has gathered dust and that’s why the days feel so stale. I keep trying to give more pieces away, reaching in and finding nothing to give. I kind of miss having a heart.