To the drunk kid in a screaming match with their reflection,
To the 30-something barricaded in a motel room, shaking with need,
To the mother curled up on her remodeled bathroom floor,
To the father who sees ghosts on his freshly cut lawn,
To the girl in the chapel, who thinks she may be talking to air,
To the boy on his knees in his bedroom, who knows he’s talking to air,
I’ll make you a deal.
To the siblings who’ve been waiting all night in the hospital lobby,
To the 20-something who’s still looking for rabbit holes to fall down,
To the owner of the dollar store pregnancy test sitting on the counter,
To the lone mourner in black standing in the back of that old funeral parlor,
To the overworked, unlistened-to scientist with cramping fingers,
To the hungry, desperate artist with cramping fingers,
Let’s make a pact.
I’ll hold your hand
If you hold mine.
This busted, lopsided old bed isn’t very big, I grant you.
But I think we could all fit if we scootched in close.
I know I have enough blankets to go around,
And you could even crawl under this one with me,
If you think that might be what you need.
That might be what I need.
I’ll hold your hand if you hold mine,
I’ll hold you if you hold me.
The dark’s always felt a little less inevitable
When you can hear someone else breathing in it with you.
And I promise, I’m still here breathing with you.