Still

For hours I sit in front of the screen. It stares at me in return, mocking my empty attempts at speaking to it. Stories fall by the wayside, they blow out the window and scatter on the scorching street below. My bright summer nail polish chips in scorn. She writes from across the water to question everything; I question it back, and the emptiness bounces between us. There's a suntan line where your fingers used to rest; it means nothing. He had such piercing blue eyes, but I cannot hear the story in his kiss so perhaps there isn't one. My hearing isn't the best, but my blood is an excellent judge of character.

The mouse returns. He skitters across my bedroom floor without shame. I've been sitting here with my feet on the desk for hours, you can't blame him for thinking the world is his oyster. I set another trap.

But I'm less sure now it'll catch anything.