I’m drowning in a curtain call that’s aimed above my head and my bow is just acquiescence to the arc of their intent. Drafted as a stand-in because my cold and distant face is a dead ringer for the ghost who is still starring in the play every night. I say sorry to your costume that I’m still wearing by mistake when I get back to my hotel room and the rush begins to fade. The city presses its face to the window in the night and it flattens like a postcard to a pair of hollow eyes stuck inside. I stepped into the role to realize my goal, my heart calloused and resigned. The last words on her lips: a perfect fit. So dim the lights for the penultimate show. There’s no place I have to go when the cast disbands tomorrow. I watched you like a TV until my own life was condensed to a blurred-out image balanced on the periphery of sense. Now I’m still surrounded by you while I’m curled up into a ball with the scent of desperation leaking out from rented walls you left behind. Chorus. And all the actors become props. All the actors become props, and then all the acting stops.