There is a black glove
and there is your red heart.

The black glove covers
a thin, pale hand.
And there is your red heart.

In the cold, dry palm
of that thin, pale hand
covered by the black glove,
there is your red heart.

And your red heart beats
like it wants to beat forever
like it don’t know how to quit
like it cannot give in
until, of course, it does,
like all red hearts do,
especially so exposed
by the cold, dry palm
of a thin, pale hand
covered by a black glove.