A fine song looped from the corner of the
room. From the bed I settled on my back and extended my arms
and legs until muscles curved like tourniquets over bone. I
half-dreamed the melody, the words in certain combination with the
medicine. This song can do nothing but make its lyrical circle
above me, weather from yesterday or before.
Scented candles she left on the headboard, busted melon and spoiled apple pie, make for me a headpiece, the wax puddles inches from my brow. I remembered the last time she was here, sitting with her jogging pants down in the bathroom while I asked questions and questions. Still comfortable enough to leave the door open.
And the song. The song is just a song, only black noise that if played backwards would reveal the sounds of our last night, a half-nightmare clash of lost heat and fast blood circling the room in search of its split apart other half. In search of someone who might wash their hands of this, who might cut again through my back and pull loose my guts to soak them in cool water.
Sheldon Lee Compton
survives in Kentucky. His work can be found in more than sixty
journals including Staccato
Fiction, Pank, Monkeybicycle
He writes and interviews and all that at bentcountry.blogspot.com.