The Confession

I have 13 seconds

to finally say

I love you

like I mean it.

In just under

14 clicks, a car will

strike you soundly

as it speeds on through

the red.

Red is the colour

of wine & valentine,

not the spurt

that’s on the road,

making the street

look like it’s bleeding

when it’s you.

I can blame the signal 

on the sidewalk,

say its recurrent,

orange hand had come

too late,

accusing it of waving

when it should have

twirled its finger to

head on back, listen

instead to the 40ish

me by your side,

the one who’ll stand

at the corner and watch

you go, out of living,

out of breath,

who took your years of

prime without the why,

his tongue in a

Gordian knot,

unable to fathom

one word from another—

not just then but now—

in the span it takes

to scream your lovely

name, there in the

flash of chrome

& blinking lights.

Andreas Gripp

May 2, 2025

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