When your heart falls into your lap and it's just there, pulsing, kinda, until it's not.
Blood gets everywhere — walls, chairs, on anyone who gets too close — and people, people you don't know, people who shouldn't have opinions but do, because they always do, spit in disgust, "My God, put that away. Nobody needs to see that."
So you lift your heart to your sleeve, where that sweet scientific thing — gravity, somebody called it — runs it dry. But not before rivers (maybe they are more like streams, creeks even, running north to south and never north again) drip, drip, drip down your arm. Your left. And as it weaves down, down, around your elbow, it circles again, again, around that finger, that now plain finger, where a ring once perched.
But did it? Maybe that was a dream too. Maybe your contacts are dry or your watch is dead; you can't tell time anymore and your eyes, so red.
Again the people — stop talking, all of you! — assure you you must put that away. They call you "darling" and rub the arm not crusted in blood.
So you put your heart back in its cage, behind a fanning of ribs. It only has tiny peeks of sunlight, between the third and fourth rib, mostly. There it will sit, contained, seeking the sun whenever possible. Something about vitamin D, you've heard.