Limp hearts crippled by grief, pump Love's residues out in slow trickles like tears.
The remnants of what was passionate bliss, once absorbed so fully in joyous saturation, now oozes out like a sponge.
This loving heart that so enjoyed the beating of those stereo staccato's, of two times so much more, has now been squeezed out by the merciless grip of loneliness.
Limp hearts go on but the pulse is thready, stitched by holes, poked by a sharp tongue, or the cruel barbed wires of farewells.
Hobbling on the crutches of "maybe next time?" limp hearts are not so quick to skip a beat or spurt maniacally at any others kind words or new eyes that say come on.
Lust of course, can set the pumps flowing, but the possibility of love brings pause, one is quicker to wait before taking that leap again, tentatively testing the heat of a moment, wary of what's lukewarm, and debilitating to them.
Thus limp hearts all over the world can be heard shuffling, in the wee hours of the mourn.
Pacing back and forth as their empty chambers echo against a sternum face.
The isolation found between the ribs that enclose their hearts like bars cast long shadows that darken all hope where limp hearts remain.
Long after love has been executed, they remain prisoners to what their soul says should have been perfect, but what their lives have proven unattainable unless flawed.