Blank

She's sitting there, cough syrup flowing through her like cheap heroine. Her skin is slick as the air conditioning fails and the crickets chirp outside in the eighty degree heat. The night is long already as she stares at the pad of yellow paper. She's home alone again and wishes for once you were there with her. She wishes you would for once tell her something about you, something about this past that you keep mentioning but never describing. The pen is heavy. Her closet is ajar.