you give it all away when you talk. maybe it's who i am, maybe you're messy with me, and i don't know how to sit with it. we are wavering. the air between us has coagulated. you face me and meet my eyes. i say, "is that all?"

light pools in the iris of your eye. i glance behind us, squinting, closing my eyes to the hot sun. your hand envelopes mine. it's warm and then it's cold. i blink. you're handing me a glass of water.

"you can do this," you whisper. "it's five minutes. you only have to exist for five minutes."

i want to ask questions, but already you are disappearing, and i begin to feel it (wet grass, damp socks, heavy denim and heavy cotton), and hear it (faraway sirens, phone notifications, doorbells jingling), and smell it (dirt, petrichor, baby powder), and taste it (aftertaste of mint), and soon enough i am seeing all of it.

my heart hammers. even, like a primordial clock. my vision shakes with each beat. memories fill in my mind but i couldn't describe them. i miss you for as long as i can remember to, but the glass of water you gave me is gone, and you didn't give me time for one sip. you fade as a fleeting thought.

i start to walk. i'm thirsty.