The Side Door

I saw someone go in.

Through the side door. Within

the church, there was quiet.

A Tuesday. Not a riot

of activity. Someone

had come to confess. The sum

of their secrets. The weight

of things they couldn't state

anywhere else.

It's been years since I knew

what that felt like. The pew.

The kneeling. The grace

of having a place

to put down what you carry.

I don't believe anymore.

But I remember the door.

The quiet. The specific need

for somewhere to unburden. To seed

your secrets in someone else's ear.

I walked past.

The door was closed. The past

was still with me. The cast

of belief had broken.

No prayer. No spoken

absolution.

But I remember the need.

The architecture that agreed

to take your burden.

The quiet church. The certain

weight of knowing

someone would listen.

I walked past.

The door was closed. At last

I kept walking, carrying

what I couldn't put down.