You quote a proverb,
“The wet heart does not burn.”

I say,
“I’ve never heard that one.

Let’s put it to the test.”
We draw straws,

I cut my own heart from me
and toss it

into the already roaring
woodstove.

Several hours later
we open the door and peek in.

No sign of the heart,
but the walls of the stove 

are caked with a tar
neither of us has seen before.

“Does that satisfy you?  
How does it feel to be right?” you say

as you turn away
and start to pack.

“But baby,” I shout after you,
“baby,

I was just curious!  I was just
curious!”