The Secret

I'm not sure I want to keep this title. It may be too heavy-handed. Something more subtle might be better. I'm not sure about the way I've done the line breaks either.

Today I spent mostly in bed, first trying

to shut out the unrelenting sunshine until at 11:38

I finally gave up and tried to read.

Anything to get me out of myself.

Now I just sit knees pulled to my chest clutching

my cell in one hand, heavy

like a smooth stone.

I'm not waiting for a call,

only trying to decide if I should find your name

and press Send.

You said I should call if I needed

anything

and I need something but you can't

give it to me.

The kindness in your voice

is my addiction.

When I hear your despar

at not being able to help or know what to say

I feel you reaching for me.

It's almost like love,

except you slip her name into every conversation.

What am I to you?

Something in me cries out

to let you help me, to ease my pain

for the sake of easing yours.

But when you ask what's bothering me

I can't even meet your eyes.

Like the path I walked after midnight along the river

until the city gave up on lighting it

and all beyond

was a dark wilderness,

what lies past the point where I confess

is dangerous.

Would you walk with me

or would I continue on alone?

My courage fails me

and I turn back. How can I

tell you? How can I meet your eyes

and tell you? It's you,

oh, it's you.