The prognosis is bad for you:
a heart clogged with the detritus
of living, grizzled and mottled,
purple and blue, so useless
it makes me love you more.

Have mine. I reach through
my sternum and into the cavity,
separate it from the aorta
and pulmonary artery. It is clean
ripe, ready to do your bidding.

It throbs in my outstretched hand,
a bird that has fallen from its nest.
Without hesitation, you accept.
It slips in neatly, warms to your body,
defibrillated by a single shock.

— Easy. Your pulse quickens
with the thought of my sacrifice,
but my love for you has been drained
with my blood: I am
listless, cold to your touch.