We were
ending
and you
were
afraid
of it
so you
preserved
me like
wine.

Macerated
my heart -
soaked it
in your
words
until
it was
soft,
the pulp
you
wanted
leeching
from
the rest
until it
floated
to the
top
to be
skimmed
lighter than
a throb.

I imagine
the heart,
emptied,
was
supposed
to leave
of its
own accord,
a slump
of husk.

It didn't,
so you
boiled
it away.
It left
on New
Year's eve
down
Chesapeake Street,
a self-loathing
gap in
the air.

Drink, then,
and taste
everything
that made
me what
I was.