I speak to you in tongues, too afraid of what I might admit in my native language. Now choreographing dances around the object of my apprehension, I pretend they are letters sent with no return address. I pretend I cannot be found.

I call a friend so he can convince me why I should not mourn a life I am still living. Still, the past is a balloon that has floated to the ceiling. My arms are in constant extension, relentless reaching. Whatever the present tense throws my way falls through arms that have forgotten how to bend, how to hold, how to embrace.

You ask me how I’m doing these days, and I try to find an inconspicuous way to say I’m on the shadow side of fine. That fragility is all I’m sure of. The only flag I can remember how to wave is of quilted caution tape. Have I forgotten surrender?

The dew of distance between lovers covers us like summer sweat. It is like a sheet you can’t kick off in the night. The linens tangled around your feet, uncomfortable. You are uncomfortable. And I’m apologetic. I am the half-broken fan that doesn’t oscillate like it used to. Despite my injury, I try to offer a cool kiss, a hand across the center console, a touch that says, I’m sorry. But I’m still here.

“STILL HERE” was first published in the collection Still and Still Moving, which is available in paperback and hardcover on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.

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