A shrunken airtight room rides with me today, remnant of a love expired. It sits in a corner of my pumping heart, gamely pulsing to an older beat. Love expired, not quite evaporated to Clorox clarity, yet. Into it my thoughts dip when a craving for musty pain hits and yes it does, more often than I thought it would. It's the satisfaction of scab picking, the carnal rush of a wound reopened. The meaty taste of constrained yearning, tinged with flutes of cheap beer and crumbling gingerbread.
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