It beats,

not for love,

not for sorrow,

but because that’s what it was built to do.

_Four chambers,_

working in sequence—

a rhythm older than thought,

older than language.

It pulls in blood,

pushes it out.

Feeds the lungs,

the liver,

the long corridors of muscle

that carry us through our days.

It doesn’t pause to wonder.

It doesn’t argue with its cyclical task.

Even when we’re still,

it is not–

ticking with the rhythms of time.

No promises.

No meaning.

Just function,

flawless in its refusal

to be anything more.