3pm

 
A jumpscare at 3pm in the afternoon
hits me in the gut like you used to.
My heart stops under a streetlight
and I’m there as you say it.
We’re on top of the cliff,
looking
down,
we can see the house where I used to live,
the door you walked me to after our first kiss.
You’ve been there before
every night
for weeks
and the dog wouldn’t stop barking.
I know that you won’t do it.
You never do.
You and I both know that
it wouldn’t
kill you,
and then you’d have to explain it,
to everyone.
To your six-year-old niece;
you’d tell her that you’re unhappy
because your brain is churning you out
and that used to be my job.
I’m playing super eight film reels
of teenage summers,
where we never thought
 about death,
or tried to piece ourselves together again.