-insert a cello riff- Remember when we were fourteen and you could run real fast, spindly legs churning, feeling no burn because you had hardly any thigh muscles? And you would pass that ball, weave, wink at me, dodge and score. I couldn't catch you; I didn't want to because of your resounding glory! They said you were super groovy with your finesse of movement, feisty conversation and black hair that grew and grew and grew. And I seethed while picking out bits of food from between my braces because I couldn't run or talk.
Now you can't run, not really, you only run away, or run to patients as you complete blood transfusions and prescribe drugs and give them that warm it'll-be-okay-smile I haven't seen in such a long time. You are learning to save lives; there is someone else’s rotten bacteria seeping from your hands and you can't reply to me. Tell me what is in those overwhelmed organs of yours! I won't go finding someone to tell your secrets to this time: I will just whisper them onto a hidden record that I will play on repeat to keep your legacy alive.
Lady you keep your secrets like the goal-keeper shields the net because your biggest fear is being exploited! But wait, I have already done that. Accidentally. ‘Doctor! Doctor! Tell me your secrets!’ But you can’t, not legally so when you do it is in a tumble of substance of whim. And then you retract further. As if the secrets are lies or the lies are secrets and all the formations of vice-versa that we can multiply.
The pride choking in my throat can’t apologise properly: but I would chop my hand off for you. Isn't that what friends are supposed to do?
Secret: I have told you all my secrets, knowing that they have been swallowed into the minds of others, not caring as the thought of losing you barely fits into the cracks between the letters in d-e-v-a-s-t-a-t-i-n-g.