Dream after an open-heart surgery, or how a breakup feels after promises of marriage

Your heart is a surgeon.
It makes an incision in your chest
from within. Your sternum takes a curtain
call as if its role on your body’s stage is over.

Through the space between your lungs,
your heart emerges
slathered in decades of beating
alone. Your heart has always longed
to belong, witness the world
with its own untiring eyes.

Veins and arteries
heavy with teenage aspirations,
sit befuddled in the broth of blood
on your chest, a bed of noodles
for the meat of your heart
to rest its infinite possibilities
before launching into its primal quest
to touch the world’s lacerated nerves.

Like a helium balloon, it rises up
gnawing the atmosphere’s gossamer flesh
until it reaches the stratosphere, transforms
into an immediate Sun. Everything is red.

The moon, blood red, reflects plasma
storms. Painted black, earth’s once blue
bewilderment kills every organism
except the thermophiles. They dream
of drifting clouds with acid rain.
That sharp tinge of sulfur vapour.
Incessant lava floods.