I’m handed a book, opened with an attached pen. “Write your secret, give me your advice, tell me how to do it, sign your name.”

I stare down at a ledger of secrets shoved into my hand showing barely a concern. My other hand limply holds a pen, the tool that supposed to erase all the pain and all the hurt. The depression, the abuse, the hopelessness, the tool to ease it all is in my hand. With a few words and a swipe of my left hand I’m hoped to sign away the emptiness of promises.

I return my gaze to her face, wishing her breast was in my hand, her nipple being moistened by my lips. I see the expection expected and I’ve seen how expections are never fulfilled as eyes search my soul in expection. So many words, so many lines, so many signatures, and now it my turn. It is my turn to make my mark to give another line a shot at a fix.

There is nothing to be written. There is nothing to be said. So many words, it is already all there. The secrets are no longer hidden. No longer is ignorance there to protect. All the wisdom, rights, and successes are right there, bound by processed tree pulp. All the life truths there ever were hidden in random bits of ink within my hands waiting for my truth, my magic.

I stare back down, past the book in my hand, past all the secrets for making it in this world. I stare at the crumbling cement of my drive way, a mixture of filler pebbles, dirt, grime, and water wondering where all these signatures went wrong? All those words, and all those wisdoms, yet she is in front of me broken, defeated, depressed, fighting for hope. Any hope will do, any signature to fill the ledger with accounts of those whom cared.

I want to shut the book, trapping the unreality within. I want to drop the book into the mud, burying it from any light bedazzling the lies. I want to lift the lid to my garbage can and deposit the book into the bookdrop, to be forever returned. I want to share some secret, but the only secret I have is my own selfishness. The only secret I have is a desire to remove her clothing.

Finally I take a firm grip of the pen and make a mark. With an “X” I give my advice with a signature. With an “X” I tell the generic secret told by all, signed by generic persons without any answers. Easily copied, easily plagerized, easily twisted, easily transfering my apathy.

With the “X” my hand snaps shut her book and reaches across life’s horrors returning her patched up life raft to her hand. My heart is heavy as she smiles in gratitude for a secret to get her through. My heart is heavy knowing I can never help, my words will never make it better. All I can offer is an ear, and maybe a moment of intimacy, but my words, my words are mute.