whether your heart breaks slowly, or in one shot
no hustle
whether it decomposes, with fungus and decays
like dead muscle
or unravels like a sweater smelling of mothballs
or lives for another 600 years gradually blurring like stone carvings
or quietly explodes, like a nebulous supernova
or loses its flavor, like a bulb of jasmine tea
or rusts like what once was your house key
or dissolves like salt in the sea
or flies away like an adolescent bird
or reduces sacrificially, like sandalwood
or melts in a furnace
or rots in a landfill
or is recycled in a large system of municipal and diplomatic negotiations with countries, shipping companies, and profits, in order to bring it back somehow in another form so that it can continue living and beating perhaps as itself or as any other matter, treated with chemicals and talk to make it work within a narrow range in the spectrum of mental states, the walls of this range closing tightly around it.
your heart is material.