Imbalance

There's no accounting
for our feelings, as we gather
in memorium:  our once friend
and sometimes confidante,
whom we held close:

the credit of our trust against the debit
of your secrets

we so often looked into your guileless eyes
never suspecting betrayal,
defending you and trusting
the balance sheet
as we saw it then

mea culpa

to trust a friend
was a gift we accepted
with open hearts and gratitude
for what you gave, perhaps not as freely
as we thought

does it matter anymore?

The harsh winter light reveals only
the ledger,
your answers in the silence
of the grave.