the slow death of secrets

I draw the thin coat
of my last mysteries tight,
gather it around my shoulders,
though it holds no warmth
in its sheer folds.

You have taken my hands
and pried them open,
released the grey moths I treasured.
On tattered wings they fluttered
into your long shadow.

The rusty coins I clutched
landed dull at my feet.
Lark feathers, dried violets,
cowries and paper stars
all tumbled through my fingers.
Snippets of silk, sequins and snow-
this was all I cherished.
Had you hoped for dragons?
or blood or fire?
Did you look for keys and locks of hair,
letters, mirrored daggers,
poems and plotted maps?

We sit now, knee to knee,
and you trace the lines in my palms,
study them with exquisite patience,
certain you will discover
the one jagged stripe that reveals all.