The Architect

What if your friend became an architect,
but failed to tell you that
and you sent no gift, no card, no flowers
for matriculation?
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

And what if your friend decided the
ancient edifice that was your relationship
needed renovation – oh, immediately, extensively -
but failed to tell you that?

What if you entered the home place you shared with your friend
and found she had applied skills she possessed
but had failed to tell you that?
What if you asked, “Friend, what is all this?”
And your friend replied, guilelessly, “What? Nothing's different.”

What if, upon your next visit, it could no longer be denied?
She had reassigned weight-bearing walls, reduced the size of
certain rooms and built an escape hatch as would be used in
the Underground Railroad, but failed to tell you that.

“Friend, I can and will live with anything between us,
my only requirement being truth.”
And what if your friend began to build such a
structure of lies that you could feel life, love
and esteem, as you knew them for her, slipping away?
But you failed to tell her that. Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend progressed from lies to silence, used interchangeably,
choosing the subjects about which she would or would not say anything at all?
“Friend, I am losing respect and admiration for you. I have been plain
about what I need. You have nothing to lose by being honest with me.
I will not abandon you.”
“Nothing has changed between us.”
What if you left the building having made a hard decision,
but you failed to tell her that? Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend asked for a favor and explained
she needed you to lie?
She needed your lie to cover a lie she'd told another friend.
In fact, “Heh, heh,” she'd already misused your name and
a false premise to fool a perfectly innocent person for
whom you felt no enmity.
Used your name, or lack thereof, and your artistic property,
your own history, without permission or discussion.
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?