My heart, a heavy and squishy organ.
Heavy and warm.
Ripped out and left on the ground.
Beating, still.
Until, it is still.
This heavy and warm heart, placed on the ground of a cold world.
Automatons.
Devoid of empathy.
I tap the shell of each person, hoping to know if they feel and see what I see.
Nothing.
And I am left alone, on the cold ground – waiting for a fellow heart to see and feel like me.
Syre.
