Whisky

You arrived slow—

not like lightning,

not like a storm breaking open the sky.

More like a song drifting

through a dim bar at midnight,

soft enough that only the lonely

turn their heads.

I had been drinking the world

straight and bitter—

burning my throat with every memory

I tried to swallow.

But you—

you tasted different.

Warm.

Smooth.

Like something aged in quiet places

where time teaches rough things

how to soften.

Your voice didn’t rush me.

Your hands didn’t demand.

You just stayed there,

patient as oak barrels

in some forgotten room of the South,

letting the silence do its work.

And somehow

the fire I carried in my chest

didn’t feel like destruction anymore—

it felt like warmth.

Like sitting on a porch

with the night humming around us,

two broken people learning

that sometimes love

doesn’t crash into your life.

Sometimes it pours slow,

gold and steady,

and burns

just enough

to remind you

you’re still alive.