Still.

 Life moved on in picture screens, number keys and photographs of women with flat abdomens. It moved on with bike tricks and phone calls to ex lovers and the mouths of cheap beer cans. Time did not stop despite my feeling justified. The dead clock that hangs above the wine rack is still fully functioning twice a day. Moving forward is inevitable.
 I've been drinking a lot. I like to dance now. When I dance it does not hurt so bad. And it feels nice to be touched and held by strangers that smell good beneath the flickering lights of a moment that will never come again. Sometimes I dance with Anchor boys. They notice my face. They pull me out on the the dance floor like it is their only chance to ever make it happen. It isn't. But then, Sunday comes and they do not acknowledge me. I chalk it up to casualties. I chalk it up to culture. No one really wants to get to know anyone anymore.
 Boys ask to sleep with me.
 I always secretly wish they mean they want to wake up next to me and go to breakfast.

I ache for something to emulate us. 

I miss you.
I say that like a secret into the cavernous crook of my arm.

 My belly was too big and voiced the hollow need for validation. My chest was too small and concave, it wasn't for the resting. I was made of acrylic-I am not music. I always said too much and thought too little. I needed communication too badly. I wasn't the her who carves poetry out of pages and pages out of foothills and foothills out of time. I wish you had loved me. I would have considered it a mark of forgiveness.

 My tiny heart is a murmuring
 Monologue.
 You're in the crawlspace of it...

 Still.