She tells me
    she's done opening up—
    notices herself slipping,
    sharing too much,

    and swears… she'll stop.

Then, with barely a breath between,
    she spills another story,
    another secret,
    another glimpse

    into pages she pretends are glued shut.

Last night it was him—
    that one significant name
    from the past,

    the backstory she was
    absolutely,
    definitely,
    positively

    not going to tell.

And yet, there she was—
    tea spilling,
         smiling,
       eyes wide,

    as she confessed another piece of herself into the open space between us.

I listen,
    try not to smile too loudly,
    try not to highlight the way her eyes light up—

    when she's telling me something she's never told anyone else…

    the charming irony of a closed book wide open in front of me.

I don’t mind the contradictions—
    (they’re the best part),
    because each story feels like trust,

    a gift she swears she doesn’t give.

Tonight,
    after work dinners,
    and polite conversations,

    I'll be waiting—

    ready for more stories…

    she swears she won't tell.