It seems that
The only thing that warms me now
Is the scalding water
Of my showerhead.

My bones are all my sad endings and lost loves and destroyed galaxies soldified.

No hero's smile or requited love or photogenic nebula
Will ever do it for me.
Not any more, at least.

The muscle in my chest has rotten away to reveal cobwebs and a chill;
Even before the heart had gone to waste it had already been out of use
For a long time.
The veins and arteries once filled with life are now static,
Little tubes that serve no function.

My palms open and close-
Or, I think they do.
If my heart is gone, how have I lived on?
I assess the state of my chest cavity.
Oh.

I have not.
I am but a tangle of thoughts in my consciousness left to stew in limbo,
A fitting punishment of corporeal suffering
For the body that once held
Me.