Bump bump bang bang
the world goes numb.
Numb from the cold.
Hearts aren't for love anymore,
just blood.
Blue blood like the rest of us,
we can't get enough oxygen to make it red.
The drugs do it for us now,
do everything.
We barely have to think,
we barely have to move.
Drugs do our jobs, we used to joke,
but our bodies are still there.
We just aren't sure where exactly
there
is. It seemed like yesterday we were alive--
we think.
We sort of remember warmth.
We sort of remember laughing.
We sort of remember nostalgia,
a memory for years past and
lessons learned from previous failures.
We remember once when a man
said he would do something and did it,
gratis,
out of the goodness of a loving heart.

Hearts aren't for love anymore.
Just blood that spills.
We see it all the time now.
We know what it looks like
dried and cracked,
stained on our clothes.
We don't run from blood anymore
because we understand that
soon
our blood will leave our hearts
and stain our carpet or street.
This does not scare us because
we understand it as inevitable.
We remember when death was frightening.
We remember when blood was uncommon.

We remember the sun.
Clouds, gray and bleak,
rain putrescence down every day
on the homes that used to be warm.
We sort of remember warmth.
We remember feeling
things,
any things.
Temperature, moisture, emotion.
Love.
We remember until the bump bump bang bang-