My disbelieving tongue returns to prod the site of the extraction time and time again.
Tongues sometimes refuse to believe what the brain knows to be true.
They are more in alignment with the heart.
They hold onto the same ridiculous beliefs about permanent fixtures and things that last forever.
They hold allegiance to such romantic delusions.
Even when confronted time and time again with the salted rust of impermanence.
A bloody pulp of memory where something solid used to reside.
I prod the ache, causing it to swell and throb.
The more it hurts, the more I return to the spot.
The pain of this is more bearable than the alternative.