Thursday, February 10, 2011

And then it hits you in the face like a metal hammer.

Forget who reads, forget who knows

It comes back without haste.


The big secret.

It is like when you first typed those letters those years ago, a script of your life, a passage.

It weighs heavily on your heart as you feel yourself floating upward, giddy.

You've only found yourself wishing like this once before, and, for that, you still sometimes find yourself wishing, daydreaming.

It is as if that night was last night.  The dim lighting, the small room, the purple ink, the slender frame, the delicateness, the suspicion, the truth.  How you wish you could live it again...

And, then, there is last night; the thoughts in the mind, the reading, the pumping, the jumping, the curiosity, the fear, and the happiness.

How many years has it been?

Is it possible to take this to the grave, when part of you tells you to shout it from the rooftops?

The other part is shy, scared, frightened, and partially shamed and embarrassed.

Forget who knows.
Forget who reads.

Take it to the grave.

...or take my hand; please take my hand.