Confession

Tonight my heart is weary. A worn out old shoe. Empty. Derelict on the front porch.

It’s a good evening for tears.

How much time do I give this? How much time do I give you? (Or him, or this whim… or or or…)

Have you ever held a ripe mango in your palm… pressed your thumb into the thick flesh, knowing that any more pressure will bring that golden juice, drip it down your palm… to wrist? I think my life is like that.

Almost. Ready. To. Drip.

I despise how easily bruised I am. How over ripe. Yet, I know that there is something in this that makes up part of who I am. It’s part of why I am beautiful. The mango tastes just as sweet lapped off your fingers as it did on the peel.

Now, in this darkness blooming…. Let us talk about secrets.

My secret heart. My secret dream. My secret garden that I planted in the moonlight of your leaving…. Now to tangle and spear at the moon. Is that me calling up to the stars? Or was that the wolf that prowled the edges of my intellect. Where did the sun go? The lush green of potential? When did spring put away her soft pastel dress and let Summer whore her way into my landscape? Over ripe. Almost. Ready. To. Drip.

Summer made me do it. All this recklessness. It's her influence. Primal as the ripe moon and the warm seduction of nights spent under the sky. My heart is empty. My body untouched. And this is the time of lovers.

I miss you. But who is you? Or is it I miss the something I can't quite name? The one I have not met. The one that I don't believe in, except when lost in the safe dark of my overblown garden. Why do I feel like I am about to blow away, lost in my own good intentions and longing?

Kiss me quick.

Darkness is nothing to the bright WHITE of introspection.

G.