Pretend, if you will, the affair is oven. A decade, other people made and discarded, gingerbread. The love gone from the heat. What will you do with the blank you shot from your heart, that cinnamon dot? Will you pretend it was not meant for consumption? We always mourn the aporia--but what about things we used up? Do they grieve us less because we've been fueled by them? The day I ate was a good day. The first day I could not eat, it hurt. And then, bitten by bitten, I got littler.