It is not a thing of poetry.

It does not ache. It does not long.

It is a fist, clenching, releasing,

a machine of muscle and impulse,

wet and red, unthinking, unfeeling.

It does not flutter. It does not break.

It contracts like a steel trap,

like a piston firing in rhythm,

a cycle, a pattern, a function.

It does not sing your name.

It pounds like a hammer against bone,

not for beauty, not for loss,

but because it must.

It keeps the blood from settling,

keeps the body from rotting too soon.

You were never the reason it raced.

That was adrenaline, cold and chemical,

no different than a beast in flight,

a body primed for survival,

nothing sacred, nothing soft.

It will not stop for you.

It will not slow in mourning.

It will do its work until it fails,

and when it does,

it will not whisper your name.