Shelby Newsome

These Secrets Aren't My Truth

When you suggest we peek through the cracked front door to make sure everything is okay, I pause. The cadence of your rushed syllables meets the gossamer from my icy sigh. We are almost home, I think, as I stand next to you on the sidewalk, parallel to a row of houses. Your eyes plead with me, a palpable urgency. I put my hands in my jacket, feel the alcohol warming my insides, release another sigh. It is late, the bar closed, and I want to go home.