Morning Mist

Promise not to laugh until we get home.
I have a word or two to say and I couldn’t stand to see them fall apart.
Please promise not to show a sign of feeling until we depart,
then this all can dissolve into the morning mist,
fading into the fog with all the visions and dreams of this car getting anywhere.

Remember not to breathe or utter a sound.
I’ve spent nights dating my mirror to figure out the right words,
practicing the exact pacing and the precise presentation,
dissecting every line down to the letter and worrying about missing the dots and crosses,
because I think you’ll see through my many little imperfections.

But when I look into your eyes my heart races,
jumping up and down in the caverns of my chest, playing jump-rope with my happiness,
toying my mind with pictures of hand-holding and a passionate kiss,
all of it theatrically staged under a canvas of moonlight and burning stars.
Those words I practiced so diligently become jumbled and scattered in my daze.

What I’m left with is a series of convoluted thoughts only I can read,
like my brain’s handwriting is nothing but a child’s unrestrained scribblings.
As I hand these broken and confused words to you, please don’t laugh until we get home.
And if it’s not to be I can dissolve into the morning mist,
and this can just be one of those things that will forever go unspoken.