Forgive me for what I find to be truthful
and for what I must air out
lest I choke on my own thoughts.

From one raised brow, we have long stripped
our doubts and cautions about one another.
Now, we steal glances
and idle with poached jowls
while our hearts bang out boisterously
like metronomes longing to synchronize.

Evenings together feel
as if set in autumn or winter
especially when you tell me
to not be afraid,
to give myself permission,
to be happy.
I wonder if you feel the same
and subscribe to your word.
I wonder if you know 
that I’m open here
and not hiding behind my words.

Your hands are calloused from working,
making contact against flesh and brick.
The color of clay and blood
have tattooed your knuckles
ever since you were little.
You’ve been fighting the world
as you’ve known it
and shown me
and life around you
a divine resolve
and wisdom grander than my peers.

You are free
and who am I
to linger on,
to latch onto
someone un-seeking
and superior to me?
I am confidently unworthy.

But if I may ask you,
I must ask
if I am someone who might bruise your pride
if I walked beside you?
If I decided to confide in you
while climbing mountains,
would we go our separate ways
after reaching peaks?

If I told you any of this,
would I seem monstrous to you?

Thank you for reading this edition of The Morning Owl. If you liked what you saw here, please leave a like, subscribe, leave a comment, and share this newsletter. Until we meet again, do take care.