I am small (too).

I am breathing for the first time in weeks – shaky and stunted and messy. Full of spit and saline and the sound that comes out when you are trying so desperately to keep it together. You know the one, something like, “huh huh huh huh.” Like your lungs are asking a question that your heart can’t answer. 

My hands say goodbye and please don’t go in the same reach, and last night my fingers were so cold you shuddered, offered your warm arm to me, gripped that glass of whiskey like your steely pupils know my hidden parts.

In the green room your hand stayed, fingers pressed to glass pressed to lips and laughing. Leaning in, I felt the curl of your resolve pressed between our foreheads and I was so grateful for your red booted turn and walk that my single press withered in your wake. 

We are grown now and wanting is not the same as needing, even though I have never been one to excavate that sort of distinction.

I always believe you when you say that we are going to be okay.

Okay.

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