your heart’s a grenade, with its pin 
already warm in the palm 
of another man’s hand,
two nights ago, back at the bedsit
you twisted;  a nebula of flesh,
a chemical helix, an unbreakable code,
you told me that single emotion,
with fingers long enough to reach,
had found its way behind your breastbone,
now you lie scattered and still;
smoke rising from a hole in your bed
the place where your ribs once rested.