steadfast

 You've told me before 

that you don't remember 

a specific chunk of your life.

The details blurred away

by the chaos of it.

I remember-- some parts-- though.

I remember you calling me,

drunk (too often we were) 

(ah, youth)

and sobbing,

to tell me you loved me, 

to beg me...

I haven't told you. 

I'm still ashamed

of holding too high

a moral high ground

over defended my point

instead of admitting

I love you (too.)

I can't tell you.

In the era of our lives

when you confessed 

your memory failed you

we had come to agreements

of what we would not

ask of each other.

I agreed. 

My agreement made me a liar

and I cannot bring myself

to face the potential

that I have remained

in my unspoken constancy,

while you have moved on

from your tear slurred confession.

I will not tell.