I feel things when I see you. An hour into this ice bath—I still feel things. Toddler crying at Teardrop Park—feeling things. If I didn’t need this, I would give it away. But I need this. I’ve imagined a waterfall with another waterfall behind it. Other timelines exist where your hand is holding mine—the locations vary: airport terminal, 7-Eleven, nondescript supermarket. I need all of this. The harsh light of an emergency room—great place to feel everything. I met your sobbing over the phone first. Describe things for me. Where were you when I didn’t know I needed all of this? Pink ribbon of clouds stretching out over the horizon line. Make the pain adorable. I meant to say: your bones will forgive you, I promise. Those mistakes you own that belong to other people—they will find their way back. For now, hold my hand as we walk home. Hide your face under the weighted blanket as sirens sound outside. That isn’t your emergency or mine—you can let it go. So can I. Hold my hand, squeeze it twice if you’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive. I’m alive.