"Follow my voice,” she'll say.
I’ll answer, "Follow you anywhere."
It'll look like a silent film, and I'll hold a bottle of liquor—written on the side: “XXX.”
Using the prop, I'll attempt to dig towards the sound of her voice.
She’d tell me, "We're not magnificent, you know?”
"I know,” I’ll say. “But I thought we were."
The earth will stain my knuckles black.
I’ll drink with exaggerated movements, just like a silent actor—undercranked.