Please don’t tell me secrets.  Please.  I can’t keep gifts hidden until birthdays.  I want to fess everything to everyone all the time.  ”Wait until you see what I got you!  You’re gonna love it.  Here, want to open it now?”

I’ll tell you the worst thing I’ve ever done.  I’ll tell you all the worst things.  If you meet me, and we walk downtown, the buildings shifting daylight, I’ll tell you stories.  And you’ll wonder how much is true, and remind yourself that it doesn’t matter.  It’s the feeling of the thing we’re chasing.

I won’t ask for your forgiveness.  Not anymore.  I know now, that your forgiveness doesn’t matter.  Or your love, if you’ll forgive me.  What we gift to one another is kindness.  Tell me your stories.  The half-formed worlds.  Tell me about your first recitation.  A graveyard that moved you. The epic of your favorite pair of jeans.

But don’t confide anything.  Not anything you expect to remain vaulted. Sacred.  Guarded.

I am unscrupulous about stories.