He lay on the table,
his heart torn apart,
Fasted and hollow,
a soul from the start.
For eight long hours,
the surgeon would fight.
A scalpel in hand,
to restore what was right.

The Mayo scissors cut deep,
tearing through the skin.
Halsted forceps clenched,
pulling through sin.
A bypass to carry
what was broken inside,
but the heart, in silence,
began to collide.

Scream tore the air,
choking the breath,
crying for mercy,
for the end, for death.
With every stitch,
the room quaked and bled—
A love that could never
be healed or fed.

And when it was done,
the silence was worse.
The screaming had drowned
in an endless curse.
No suture could bind
what the heart couldn't bear.
A wound so deep,
not a soul could repair.

My love for you is parasocial
But I swear we knew each other once before

A whispered "love," a trembling plea,
Yet silence spreads like a raven’s decree.
The night devours, the stars recede,
Unspoken truths, a soul that bleeds.

Your lips unmoved, your gaze a tomb,
A frigid void, a lover’s doom.
I claw at shadows, a specter’s trace,
But find no warmth in your hollow embrace.

What lies ferment beneath your guise?
What poison rests in your deadened eyes?
I taste the ache, a bitter hymn,
The only sound—a distant "hmm."