Things become commonplace.

I cried where you couldn’t see, pressed against you. I descend to the lower level to ensconce myself in oak veneer—maybe we’ll never see eye-to-eye—and pretend, while she texts me my lines. I rest my head on a last-edition Black’s. Sometimes when I drink, I narrate series of verbs: “Stand. Pull. Set. Toss. Clutch. Click. Switch.” I have nothing to give you. My pockets are newly empty, except for a locket I clicked open one time too many. There’s a trick to it now. There are too many parts I can’t show yet, even while I say “This is everything.” I lie back on my red sheets, alone, and think, “Almost there.” All in good time. I raise glasses and whisper toasts. I start too many sentences with “I” that never finish.