Inhale, Hold, Holy ****

Sometimes the truest language isn’t eloquent at all.

It’s sharp. Profane.

The kind that rises up my neck in a red wave,

sets my pulse hammering,

and makes me acutely aware of every inch of my body.

It’s reserved for the days when decisions are enormous,

debate is endless,

and no one knows which way the vote will fall until the motion is made and roll is called.

For the moments when the phone lights up afterward with

“I see you.”

“This is a lot.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I appreciate you.”

"Here's to the next chapter."

So I breathe.

In 1-2-3-4…

Hold 1-2-3-4…

Holy fuck 2-3-4…

Fuck this.

I need a cigarette.