An Eventual Confession
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.