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.