Sacramental.

I dreamed about
you in between the
perilous stages of
not knowing if I’m
sleeping or half-awake.

I confessed to you
as if you were a priest,
except there was no
shame or anxiety
entering the closed-off
section of church.

You weren’t a vessel
of God, nor were we
pretending that the
salvation of my soul
depended on this.

Trust was not a prayer
I had to become more
disciplined in reciting.

I trusted you,
not as my contrition,
but as a way to cope.

You never betrayed
that trust, and I wish I
had leaned on you more.

I wish I had told you
everything
the early summer of my
senior year.

I wish I hadn’t clung
to the frayed edges of my
sweater, resorting back to
silence, worried everyone
would talk about me,
when I used to be social
and happy, without
a care in the world.

Nothing is sacred, anymore.

We’re both adults.

Confessionals aren’t
safe places where I can
breathe freely,

though in my subconscious,
a minuscule part of me
wants to return to you,
the way a child will always
run to their father without
fear of repercussions.

I wish you were still in
my life,

but I know
it’s only wishful thinking.