We eat pills you bought after a concert
In a parking lot in Camden
And promise to hold hands if things start to get blurry.
You ask me if I feel it so many times
Then you give me the silent treatment
Until you feel it.
The waves splash at our ankles
In an ocean we aren't standing in
While the sky lowers in respect of gravity.
There are things I begin to dig up
In the graveyard of my brain.
I say your name as though I was praying to you
And you laugh because you can hear it too.
"Maybe we'll survive after this," I whisper when you're tightrope walking the railroad tracks
Singing Christmas songs you swear your grandfather wrote.
Jacqueline Kirkpatrick is a writer from Albany, NY. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Creative Nonfiction and in Thought Catalog.