Heart Like Egg Whites

A lifetime of singing with the radio
won’t make you a star, and years
of sainted devotion won’t guarantee
someone in your bed. I cup my heart
my hands,  wings or shells,
all fragile, and I separate.

Blood from love, love from sex
keeping what hurts in one hand
and what keeps me beating in
the other. Eventually my protective
membranes will fail and it will all
land plop! in a dusty bowl
mixing together and drying
sticky in the sun.