the secret that i am

You tell me, “I never was good at keeping secrets.”
I wonder what this means then of the biggest –
sent, typed, tapped, Trebuchet
Of that we will never write again, you say.
We must only speak, you-me alone.
We will arrange a private tryst & on that day we will speak
and on other days, we will remember those words.
You warned me; so how foolish in the first to trust.
My one true secret – it is in black serifed indelible ink.
And now that you tell me, why then tell you?
You lie… I’ve no belief left nor faith.
Already we have our secrets;
we guard and keep them well.
The tissue-wrapped book, hand-made, I wrote our code.
You never took it home; it lives in a drawer in your desk.
Breathes ellipses to the night...