The heart is the hardest-working organ.
Say what you want about its simplicity -
it is true that a kidney is an inimitable chemical factory
and that a single pump is easily replicated by human hands -
but to be the heart is to acknowledge,
from the moment you begin beating,
that you may not pause for reprieve but for the most brief of moments between each rhythmic pulsation,
or you will have failed.
There are no second chances.
The brain's unconscious takes over when we rest our weary eyes for the night,
the lungs may cease to take in air as we hold our breath underwater,
the bones can sigh with relief as we sit to ease their creaking and groaning,
but the heart never stops,
and it expects nothing in return.
It is the purest and most obvious symbol of unrequited love, however perverted it has become as the double-humped insignia of greeting cards and hard candies.
Your tricuspid valves and your vena cava -
no matter superior or inferior, it's all the same to me -
are all that I will ever need to survive.