Now for an all too literal adaptation of getting your heart ripped out:
In rain swept streets, within the tremor of thunder, he walks towards her. The curbs hold against a stream, slowly collecting strength with the passing minutes. Ivy-green leaves try to bounce back against the heavenly tantrum, but can only look downwards. The pressure is immense; it pushes in on his ears and clouds them with a dim roar of kinetic energy. Thin hair clings to his skin with numerous hydrogen bonds while his clothes take on the weight of the storm. His feet displace cold water with each step forcing the contaminated liquid between pruned toes. “It’ll be alright, it’s alright, and it’s easier that way. They sky opened up and started pouring rain.” He shivers and water droplets fall from his eyelashes, collecting beneath him. There is no light, and if there is any the liquid fog has consumed it. His eyes do not focus, each lens unfocused, obscured by excess moisture. If only he could let loose and allow the rain to carry him away, molecule by molecule. A proper burial, a natural burial, into the soil, recycled. “It’ll be alright, it’s alright, it’s easier that way. Take me there, away.” The mud pulls at his feet as he walks into the street, “she’ll be there.” The road is flooding and it pushes him back slightly, “turn back.” She’s there, a silhouette against silhouettes. The rain looks black as it pulls on her hair. She’s smiling, hopelessly hopeful. He grabs the scalpel, and prepares to cut. “Dear…” She grabs him and kisses him allowing the blade to easily pierce the breast tissue. “Please, don’t.” He begins to cut, it comes easily and is quick. The flesh falls away, “I can’t…” She digs into his eyes, looking for something, something ancient. He drops the knife, and then pushes his hand into her chest. He feels around, and squeezes when he finds his target. “I don’t….love you. Not anymore, not at all.” He pulls as hard as he can and her heart gives way. The blood pools and washes away in the empty night.