toss the seeds in the dirt with a practiced pretense of care
wait, with poorly concealed impatience, for the greenly sprigs to grow from the dust
pluck from the ground, with an idealistic hunger, the flawless fruits of your passion
wash, purify, improve, and change with the words "I only want the best for you" over the kitchen sink with its draining draining board
chop and peal and tear and shred away with terms of endearment, frantic flowers, endless nights, whispered promises, and barely concealed panic
smother pieces of it with mustard on your sandwich, of your salad and its dressings, eat and partake of love and slice away until there is nothing left
then take the heart, the sole survivor and toss it down the garbage disposal, so all that remains is
slashed and mangled beneath orange peelings and coffee grounds and discarded idealism, lies the heart.