it's neither red nor sweet.

it doesn't melt, or turn over, break or harden,

so it can't feel

pain, yearning, regret

it doesn't have a tip to spin on,

it isn't even shapely just a thick clutch of muscle, lopsided, mute.

still, I feel it inside its cage sounding a dull tattoo:

I want, I want

but I can't open it: there's no key.

I can't wear it on my sleeve,

or tell you from the bottom of it how I feel.

here, it's all yours, now

but you'll have to take me, too.