Presence


A phone call.

Deep breath.

Questions.

Confusion.

Waiting.

A diagnosis.

Tears, because …

Knees hitting carpet.

Desperation and hope.

Head in hands.

Pleading.

Inadequate words.

Whispers shattering silence.

And, then …

I’m here, dear one. 

I’m here. 

Storms clouds swelling.

Fists ready.

Strength, not my own.

Still breathing.

Peace.

He’s here. 



Chelsey Whitlow 

Whiskey

  

They were lies.

 

I recognized their particular shade of spin as soon as they dripped from his exquisite lips.

 

I wanted to drink deep of that shade.

Drown in those lips.

Convince myself I didn’t already taste that familiar undertone of acid.

 

I could have played along.

For just a little while.

 

I could have leaned in close,

lips curled ever so slightly,

whispered wordlessly,

Game on.

 

I could have slipped my hand in his,

And disappeared past midnight,

Kept that harsh song of loneliness silenced for a night,

Or maybe two.

 

They were lies.

 

And there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world tonight…

To make me forget.

 

 

Chelsey Whitlow