A Heart

I have a tiny heart of quartz
Hanging from a silver chain
It's cold and smooth and nice to touch
But it doesn't do very much

I have a heart of ink
Always hanging from my sleeve
It's purple and black and pretty to see
But it's not the one inside of me.

I don't know what that heart is made of
Stone or ink for all the good it does
It doesn't lead me anywhere and
I only feel a distant sort of love.

And it's shallow beat sounds less like a drum
Than the erratic chirp of dripping faucet.
My blood, I think, runs colder than most
In a slushing muddy stream.

Or maybe it's just a normal heart
Doing an average thing.
Maybe it's my head that's numb
And too abused to care.