Recyled Balloons

He says love songs are recyclable.
I think they're disposable;
one use each
and they're trash.
He builds a room in his
chest for each lover.
As for me? Every man is a chamber
in an elastic heart.
I take in lovers like puffs of hot breath.
I beg each to fill me and they swell
inside of me. And even when I feel full,
I'm mostly empty.

The man with one room, just for me, breathes
deep and releases inside of me.
He inhales -- but I protest.
Feeling utter fullness in my breasts.
"But I want a love that overflows."
He murmurs into my chest.
His steamy breath forcing against
the last chamber I have left. Something tight
squeaks and he gets up to leave.

I'm looking at a room someone else built for me.
I can hear a headboard banging in a chamber
to my left and my sternum starts to wheeze.

My heart is a balloon-like vessel.
I hear it hiss and pucker at night.
Sometimes I see bubbles pop-popping
when I submerge in deep water.
"Damn," I think. Knowing that some part
of me is wrinkled and dying. I turn on some
recycled tune that makes me think of
tasting an architect's kiss. I shake my head,
caress my lips, and lay back on bedsheets
bought by an environmentalist. I imagine
what I must look like with residue from so
few lovers choking me up and draining me dead.
At least I'm not stupid, I think. And at least I know.
I am no candidate for a transplant. I am much too resistant.

http://youtu.be/aHx4BlF6V2o
Happy Earth Day!