This is the last time I can say that last time I was here I wore that blue skirt all wrong partly unzipped and rolled down below the eight month orb that buffered me from all embraces. Last time I was here my heart was a balloon, a waiting room, inflating, making space for the softest supernova. His eyes would unfold me. Every day is an anniversary of something I’d never marked on a calendar: the first car, an appendectomy, the third kiss, the pie crust finally unburnt, the night he walked north, I walked south arcing away from the dark center of the silent playground. Children readied for bed in the surrounding apartments; plywood doors slammed through the open windows. Maybe this is the day I’ll mark with the epiphany that nothing but clocks move clockwise. Not the climb of vine, not hips twining around ghosts in the dark, not the wheels of the train squealing into the station where he waited a cyclone of acronyms for the most inconceivable affection last time I was here.Stacy Miller sleeps, wakes, breathes, and walks in Charlottesville, Virginia, where she shares a life with a toddling redheaded son who stirs all her creative juices yet ferrets away her pens and her time. A former editor of the Avatar Literary Magazine of St. Mary’s College of Maryland, Stacy has a B.A. in English, and periodically posts poems to goodphyte.wordpress.com.