I am an empty jar
of artichoke
hearts.
Halved, sliced,
salted and eaten whole
with mouths open,
hearts
upon sleeves, she
gingerly caresses
parted lips. See,
marinated
hearts
beat tenderly
beneath linen made
of artichoke
hearts.
That is, until
I am left. Emptiness
consumes me, her
hearts
in the right place
but my hearts never there.
Empty, Broken.

Hearts
are delicious
until they expire.