Hermit Hearts

The heart is like a conch shell,
or is it the other way around?
It hums, they say, the song of the sea,
or just echoes the sounds surrounding it:
of the waves, of our breathing, of the vacuum
we often mistake for sand, water, air.

We owned one before. It rested
on our living room table, steady and still,
like a figurine you had to handle with care.
Its spire had been severed, leaving a hole
you would whisper secrets and wishes into:
I love you. And I love you. But I love you.
Then you would wait for its reply,
but its aperture would merely murmur
things you never understood.

But I do now. When our house was demolished,
we simply had to move to another, leaving
everything behind, like hermit crabs.