On the ground, burning brightly, sits a heart shaped box,
the flames licking out over the sides torment the concrete beneath,
its resistance to the chemical reaction an absurd defiance,
the eternal heat trying to equalize itself, but the gray stands firm.

Insects crawl in and out of the fire, lightning themselves up
with the purity of a break down, a catastrophic reluctance
finally left to its own devices, they wander away from the heart,
the beat of their wings throwing ash and embers into the air.

When the torrent finally subsides, there now resides a charred and black spot,
burned into the resistant concrete, a heart shaped center the most prominent,
amongst the amorphous shape of the rest, an incredible indecision,
when it comes to what corner to take, what rounded edge to make.

There is no art here, there is no soul here, there is no heart here,
there is only a darkened, erratic, and tread upon indistinct outline
left to remind the passers by how lucky they are,
to know what love is.