"We smoke cigarettes hoping we might feel that numbness in our feet again. But it’s August and no one has jumped in the lake. We don’t fuck anymore, especially not on fire escapes. We cuddle when we get drunk enough to remember that once we made out until the sun came up. Maybe if we make out the sun will come up again. It’s never that same shade of pink and you never kiss me that same way."

My dear, wonderful Whitney Ricketts has a piece up over at Pilot Books.