You, ballerina, spin on the edge of the sharpest desire. You can't catch me, you say, can't catch me in your net of words, but I do appreciate your efforts. Now I know why you slipped me a book of matches with a phone number that exists only in the movies. The brown room is that shade of brown called Catholic girl's school brown, rosary brown, chair outside the vice principal’s office brown, ruler slapped across the back of the hand brown. You have been bad, scaling the ancient walls around the convent yard, climbing the trees and swinging from the tallest branches. My hands will never tire of waiting to grasp your waist. My hands will always be there to catch you when you fall. But you never fall, do you? The metronome is the only true tone in the brown room. It ticks yes, it ticks no, it ticks yes, it ticks no.

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