I hold the scalpel at arm’s length,
a careful incision where the warmth should be.
The heart does not pulse.
It does not scream.
It does not protest the opening.
I map the hollow chambers,
trace the empty arteries,
expecting—what?
A flare of recognition?
A spark beneath the skin?
Nothing.
Just tissue,
just structure,
just the mechanism where something lived.
I suture it shut,
not out of care,
but habit.
Not out of hope,
but memory.
And in the silence of the steel table,
I wonder if the ghost of it still lingers,
or if I only imagined it beating at all.