The Secret

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I have a secret and I'm not telling. Not this time. This time it's mine. All mine. Well, I guess it's not all mine. Ok, so half of it's mine. She is free to tell. At least the part of the story that's hers. My story, my part... the part that I'm not telling, that's mine. My secret.

I do love a secret. Mine, not other people's. Other people's secrets come with fear and worry and a bunch of what ifs. What if I spill it? What if I forget it's a secret? What if it slips out? What if I tell? What if I suddenly turn into a shitty friend? I don't like those secrets.

But my secret... I love it. Because it's mine. My secret has power, it's own subtle yet insistent power. Sometimes it begs me to tell, but then what would I have? Nothing. The sly, denying smile would fade, the butterflies would flutter off. It's power would be gone. It would begin to tarnish. Someone would ruin it.

So, I'm holding on. What's mine is mine. And really, what's ours is ours. Of course, what's hers is hers. She can tell. She can forgo the beauty of the secret and let it out, give it away. I won't. It's right where I want to be. Again and again, if I'm honest.

Eventually, it'll come out.  Secrets always do. For now, though, I'm going to enjoy it. All of it. The secret, the memory, the warmth, the beauty. It's mine all mine. And I'm not telling.

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