An Eventual Confession

An Eventual Confession
(1/19/12)

Forgive me my candor.

I am a candid sort prone to wild confessions

That make the wolves howl from their dens,

“My but she can go on!”

I do not aim to annoy or delay you,

But I must speak my mind before it flees in fear

And the truth with it.

Forgive these breaths I take before I tell you

Precisely why I've called.

A confession cannot bloom in breathless soil

Nor can the roots reach the truth,

Buried in bone below apparent earth.

Forgive me my dawdling.

I am nervous sort prone to a clay tongue and muddled words

At which the clock taps itself and tocks,

“Out with it, or out with you!”

I do not aim to displease or hinder your day,

But I must admit my heart before it locks itself behind a cage

And my courage with it.

Forgive this dripping anxiety before you slip upon it

And lie flat-backed to hear my truth.

A first impression is dented earth in a rainstorm

And washes away even before the sun can dry it,

Leaving us with a clean slate, kissed by dew.

Forgive me my love.

I am an enamored sort prone to grand declarations

At which even lovers groan behind ringed fingers,

“A lovesick girl is just the thing to make a man feel sick.”

I do not aim to own or change you,

But I must admit my longing before you are stolen away

And my hope with you.

Forgive my lips before you kiss them,

So our sins may be heavenly.

A transgression as great as loving you burns the soul

In the greatest way; in a hellish, happy way

That at last leaves me silent for your eventual reply.