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.