She has so many friends that when I see her, she is darting
from one to another. I want her all for myself, slow afternoons
of nothing but talk.
She has a warm heart and listens to all my woes for half an hour.
But she cannot tell me her own. Next time.
I am not that good a friend, apparently. I cannot keep her still long enough.
Why shouldn't she confide? How have I betrayed her?
Do I talk too much about myself? Already she is gone.
I think that she may even dislike me.
A hard look comes on her face sometimes
when I go on too long about my troubles, which are real and dire.
Perhaps I am imagining it--this look on her face. Her eyes are elsewhere.
I should trust her more.