This chair is oh so familiar,
Propping my arm up,
The same as it always does.

The nurse arrives, needle in hand,
And removes a unit of love,
Filling that same plastic bag.

I know where my love goes.
I see it arrive, every time.
That nurse, needle in hand,
Sends my love along your veins,
To your heart.

The transfusion never takes.
At least, not from you.
Your cold body never warms.

My love will never work
Because your heart is dead.
And mine cannot pump for two.