living in your fantasy,
I am looking back, the air hitting my face wrong,
singeing its corners,
drawn too puffy or too strong
my hand falling back to grasp
something that never fills my grasp.

I wonder if the curves,
so admired by the tender drawers,
tracing each nuance, lovingly portraying every fold,
have all been wrong,
wrong.
wrong.

I used to think that getting thinner would do it.
but a happy birthday text message
is about as reassuring as the life spilled out before me
like a cocktail dropped at a party;
whether there is calculation or genuine debauchery
behind it,
it is
still spilled
irrecoverable.