Letter. Confessional.

I should, presently, be holding court rather than in bed contemplating poetry or prose.

You see dear muse, I'm fearful of the words that may flow from my brain to my pencil

(I've given up on pens, their permanence of scratching marks, and the faux lead comes in black wood and marks with little pressure,

there exists a safety in sharpening)

I am, I am, I am,

you see, adorned with an invisible scarlet letter.

not for adultery

but the other "A",

think, it will come to you unexpectedly, without warning;

and it will be guarded like chastity in mixed conversation

in fact I've recoiled from community company for fear of blurting it out

(and the subsequent reaction).

here it is, omniscient and burdensome, like slow dancing with strangers.

here, alone measuring my age and youth I want nothing more than to be greeted with a quiet solitude

dressed in fog under a heating pad that never quite gets hot enough;

a harbinger of age and the chill of years have settled in my bones

while the silver peeks through the darkness and reaches out to touch grace.