I sweep your lyrics into the corner where they build jungle gyms out of cobwebs. I have eaten my last bowl of crackers, spooned the last of the peanut butter from the jar. At 2 a.m., the bed sinks beside me with your weight, but when I look no one is there. My reflection ghosts me. I am safe if I keep my hands and feet inside. I put my hands and feet inside the music box in my chest, where I also hide your lyrics. Some are missing. I keep all my bones inside me, even though I have nothing left to stir the soup with. I have endings stacked on every shelf. I pile the books on the floor to make room for them. I don’t know which are more precarious—they all want to tumble. Watch this! they say, and I smile and nod as they cartwheel across the floor. Now I have beginnings with no endings. I invite the wind in, but it doesn’t want to stay. Things are too chaotic here, so I make the bed. When I make the bed, I find a denouement tucked under the pillow. I add it to the pile. My ribs clap like an audience at a performance that’s gone on for too long. Relieved when they can collect their coats and exit the auditorium.