It may have been premature, but I like my love premature: RARE.

You must like yours well-done, cooked through such that there’s nothing left to do. At least you won’t get sick. No risk. Just chew.

I like my love rare.

I want to see juices running, fiery red passion. Blood. At least at the beginning, I’m not saying we can’t cook it through later on.

But I want to start with some blood.

I remember the last night I saw you. Your heart felt cooked. I could tell.
Not the week before, the week before it felt medium.

Last Friday it was even medium-rare.


Sprinkled with Psilocybin Mushrooms.

But that night, that night you’d been cooked through.

I can’t uncook you. I can try to cut through your tough exterior.
I might even get through.
But, I’d hurt myself in the process. Tough hearts aren’t easy. I’m not that sharp.

And then, you’ll still be well-done, and I’ll be injured
Even scarred.
God forbids it.
He told me.

I’ve heard rumour though:
That hearts can be uncooked. I don’t know how. But I’ve heard tales. The only catch is you gotta do it yourself.
I bet it’s expensive.
I couldn’t afford it.
That’s why I’ve kept mine rare.

But you, you have time.
And you have money!
If I were you, I’d look into it.

Fly to India, Tibet, Holland or Dubai.
And ask if anyone knows a guy.
That knows about a rare heart.

That you can trade in for yours.

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