Dropping my Sunday
Clothes on the floor,
These collected confessions
Burst at the seams —
But just a whispered thought
Of the telling
Drops my heart deep
Into butterflies
And makes me want
To run into it,
The city here
Outside the window.

So I am beating
A retreat,
Again and again,
Out into the heat
To watch the people
Who watch
This place,
But none of them
Is you.

I carry your voice
With me
And my ears ring
But I don’t care.
And maybe it feels safe
Cuz how could you know?
And maybe I fell
Cuz of no expectation.

And maybe here,
I can outrun the wave…
But it’s building high
And I never learned
To swim, anyway,
And I want to touch
Your face,
And show you around
My secret hiding place,
And feel your thin hands
Tangled in my hair and
Resting on my hip and

Outcast and lonesome,
Rambling the city,
Full of strangers,
Just keep dreaming
All these confessions.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

4 responses to “Confession”

  1. brian miller says :

    maybe i can ourrun the wave…but i never learned how to swim…great capture of emotion without saying it…a city of strangers…i know that feeling too…nice piece…

  2. Mama Zen says :

    This feels really authentic. Excellent piece.

  3. Emily says :

    Thank you so much. 🙂

  4. Emily says :

    Thank you, Brian!

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