Mainly at night, the heart
breaks through its chest,

the same odor of flesh
cut open, acrid like

burning hair.

If it weren't love, I would
call it wreckage; then stone,

lying on the path, unknown
even to the feet that crush it.

And love tosses and turns,
stiffens with its memories,

empties itself of light,
of stars, of longing.

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