I will donate the husk of my heart
to a theatre company
so that it may finally obtain adoration
from an awed audience,
as a finely versed actor calls it Yorick,
or some such name.
It will be clenched under false fingers.
It will be polished and shine
and no longer rock emptily in my chest,
bemoaning the loss of you.
The shell, with the insides scooped
and served as sushi to gulls,
will finally recover and the aortic curves
will smile once more;
onto happy admirers who politely applaud,
and throw roses to the stage,
and never notice the decay at all.