Ode to Anatomically Correct, Metal Heart

My lover’s heart is ensnared on a keychain,

a lone decoration ringed amongst

useless contraptions,

lurking in the creased folds of my slacks,

quite forgettable.

It exerts the slyest pressure upon my leg,

sticking itself in existence,

begging attention, eliciting garnishment

until its weight clings heavily on the flimsy fabric,

hanged by the stitching of my pocket

lest it clink out a solid thud,

an ore stark upon the fading linoleum.

I snatch this infant out of its swaddling,

its petite arteries unformed hands

reaching out towards my own.

Its soft skin,

orange in the light,

captures my face upon its surface

before it is cleaved upon the chambers

and lovingly meshed inside those rising,

pulsating conduits of hardened life.

When my eye attempts pursuit,

the heart’s alloyed fragrance

stings at my nostrils, warding me off

to distant coddling between the weave

of my palms.

Its warmth holds tightly to the residue of mine;

my clenched fingertips trace its crevices to extract

their own rapture, and it,

at its zenith,

beats out its own frantic rhythm,

pumping in the chilled air

with great vigor

till I worry that it will grow

frigid and lifeless,

and burrow it back beneath its clothed horizon

to safety

and do not look at it or remove it from its pouch

until I know that rime’s crystals no longer threaten

to breach thy vessel’s hull.