Conversations in the dark

Can you turn off the lights?

There are some things I can only say in the dark.

Thinks like I love you,

I'm sorry,

can we talk?

Something about looking in your eyes makes

it so hard to speak.

To spill out all that is stuck in my throat,

all the words aching inside of my chest,

to be vulnerable and open and-

no, please, I'd rather we talk in the dark.

My hand on your heart, my head

cradled on your chest-that's it,

that's safe.

The darkness swallows my words, my hopes, my fears

and every anxiety.

In the dark it's ok if you pause,

it's ok if you don't respond,

it's alright if you laugh

or get angry.

In the dark I confess;

in the light I lie by omission.

The dark will open its arms to me

even if you don't. The dark is safe, and welcoming,

and familiar. In the dark,

no one judges me and

everything I have to say makes sense.

In the dark,

you can't see me cry when my voice

trails off,

strangled by the worries wrapped tightly

around my throat.

Maybe, since we're in the dark, I just

fell asleep.

In the dark, you can't see my eyes

light on fire when I speak of the future-

a future with you.

You cannot see me smile as I think of everything

everything

that I want with you.

Since we're in the dark, maybe I'm just babbling,

half-intoxicated by the tug of my eyelids

coaxing me to sleep.

So please,

please-

can you turn off the lights?

There are some things I can only say

in the dark.