the tailor of hearts cannot measure nor mend
the wearing and tearing of this delicate arterial fabric—
it cannot be recycled nor consigned to other bleeding bodies
ill-fitted and unsuitable for love and pending disasters—
a hole left gaping is a whole lot of sadness for those standing by
and the seamstress of desire, the fashionista of surgical healing
is at a loss not knowing which instruments of precision can cut through
yards and yards of hurt, pain, an endless tearing of the soul
of threads left bare by ripping emotions unchecked by inspector #21—
all that is left is a faint beat, barely audible but with a patch of memory
placed tenderly in a bag of ice, taking short breaths to survive its transport
a hastened journey to one waiting in the icu of unimaginable possibilities
and an open chest of anticipation that the hymns of love will be a perfect match
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