By Jamie Laubacher
“The laws of physics are just habits,” you say
and I drift towards traffic.
I grab a sign post, feet floating,
clicking in ears, world turning on, turning me upside down,
hair falling to the sky, gears grind against pavement I can’t feel.
To Cross Street Push Button Wait For Walk Signal;
and this I understand—I stretch towards the sense it makes.
You skip people across streams to watch the ripples they leave,
pick up the smoothest, flattest belief and flick it with your wrist, send it flying,
try to make me see nonexistent colors like fish beneath a surface only you can breach
and you stand there, unaffected,
waiting on the light.
“I’m drowning,” I say. I
always remind you I can’t swim.
always tell me I’m smart. “You can float.”
But floating is the problem as the blood is rushing to my head and please turn off the world so I
can fall back to thoughts that don’t
always leave me out of breath.
You slide me down the sign post. “So tell me about your day.”
My feet hit pavement as the light changes. Walk. We continue on our way.
Jamie Laubacher is a current undergrad student perusing a degree in English literature. She resides in Northeast Ohio, and when she’s not writing or working, she can be found knitting, walking around cemeteries, and talking about herself in the third person.