The Organ that Always Works: Romantic Improv Poetry

She asked me
to write
what is in
my heart.

Why that organ?
Why not
my lungs?
Pink quivering sacs
that gasp at the site
of her?

Why not my brain?
The repository of ideas
and thoughts of her,
and multi-sylabbic big words that
sometimes I can’t spell?

Why not my loins
that yearn for her
even when she takes
the breath out of my lungs,
the feelings out of my heart,
and the thoughts out of my brain?

They always work.

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