By Amy Frank
(Inspired by the poem ‘I Confess’ by Alison Luterman)
I confess, I looked him up
when I found out his name,
to see if he were single.
His warm brown eyes captivated me.
The command he instilled
was electrifyingly sensual.
I wanted to curtsey,
to bow down and surrender.
To ask him if he knew the way home—
Not to my house, but to the Heavens,
for in him, I saw glimpses
of forever
etched into his greying hair.
As if, perhaps,
he were as old as me,
not in body,
but in soul.
I wanted to know all he’d seen,
to kiss his scars and hold his heart
so tenderly,
but these aren’t things
one can say to a stranger
so instead I stuttered,
“I like your haircut.”
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