4 going on 6

Seated on a barstool – 4 minutes going on 6;

I hold my breath for if I dare let the air out, all my unspoken words will escape,

All the unexpressed ideas will fade,

Leaving a residual skeleton of misconstrued expectations.

Seated on a barstool – 4 nights going on 6;

My lips lose their seal;

And slowly, molecule by molecule,

My lungs deflate, and then my heart;

As the panic attacks my body, begging for air;

A hard blow bruises my back, forcing every last bit of air I held so tightly onto, out.

And just before panic fills the newly vacant space —

The blow to the back becomes just a hand rubbing back and forth,

“Breathe,” he said.

And for the first time in a while, I could, and I did.

My eyes met his, seated on the barstool next to me, watching as his image slowly slips away.

Seated on a barstool – 4 weeks going on 6;

I hold my breath until I see his face once more.