A dark silhouette of a man, shabby, with dust radiating from him like smoke,
sits on an old creaky, wooden porch holding the last remaining element of his wife.
Her tongue, not long out of the pickle jar.
He brings his cupped hands slowly up to his mouth and delicately licks the shrivelled muscle.
His eyes roll back as his lids close and he fades into the jaded memories.
He breathes slow and deep. When his eyes re-open, he is lost.
His expression of contentment fades into one of oblivion.
Rage, hurt, pain and regret fills him and in a petty display of self-loathing,
he hurles the ornamental flesh into the bushes beyond the perameters of his present existance.
"What have I done", he screamed. "You are lost forever, again, because of me".
He wails to the sky and hacks off his own tongue, which he throws over the fence,
so the memories can die together
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