Confession

I worry, losing myself in the tedium of asking too much about things I don't need to know.

Fear is something we all have living in us. Some, better equipped than others, prune it down diligently so that it does not flourish. Others feed it, lending fear the ability to send out sweet green tendrils into their outer lives. Like morning glory, we think it's pretty at first... never realizing it's potential to choke out the hardy perennials.

What is my fear? This is confession after all. Tsk tsk. Not yet. Or maybe that is my fear... that if I tell, there will be nothing to weed.

Denial is a beautiful thing.

Or maybe, just maybe... I will tell you one night. Late. The wine almost gone. I will lower my voice and lean in, tell you everything. But then, I would have to keep you. Like a pressed flower in one of my books... or that river stone on the shelf. Capture that moment, when I felt free of myself enough to show you who I am under the modern, independent, double shot americano for me please, woman.

G.