Her body shifts gracelessly in its soft lining of bulging, pale skin as she takes off her dress. She plucks bobby pins from her tangled hair and wrenches it from its black elastic band. She plops down at the edge of her bed like a drooping eyelid. She misses so much and fears so much more that her tired mind becomes the knotted gray metal of the shiny necklace he gave her for Christmas. Her heart becomes a time capsule of letters and snapshots and funny little phrases with a belly laugh in a second floor apartment. She shifts the focus of her autumn eyes from this to that, and finds that everything reminds her of him. Like the color green or kindness, a chalk-drawn menu, a red bra, addiction, a shameful cigarette, the Intro to an album or Lou Reed, Coma White or Chinese food, or anything that has to do with meth, or Pennsylvania. She sighs and looks at her hand as it reaches claw-like to clutch a blue permanent marker. She writes herself to him as if he lives inside of her journal, and blots her sorry state to the white door that he'll never answer. She closes his pages, closes her eyes, lays back on her empty mattress and moves her left leg in little circles like she's riding half of a bike.