An Open Namesake

"A lovely coincidence, isn't it;
Both of us writers?!"
She was a pro of prose,
And would call me 'well-versed'
When she felt naughty.
She was my doe-eyed lass,
I, her droopy-eyed sweetheart.
With every black and every white,
And every shade of grey in between,
I chose rather to be a box of cards;
For one might miss a few 
Turning the pages of an open book.
Every hand time dealt her, 
She had a full house of truth.
An open journal- 
Is what she called herself.
Page after page of grit and guts,
Of pain and struggle, blacks and whites,
Of trust and betrayal, battles and triumphs,
Of care and tenderness, love and life.
For every page I turned
My house of cards took shape-
Tier upon tier of respect and admiration
Upon a tier of what I know is honest love.
Just as my cards were all up,
Realization, struck like summer lightning-
Sudden, unexpected, violent, devastating.
She had words concealed, unread 
The glue of the unsaid;
Holding pages together so neat and
Undetected, making her open journal
As open as nothing more
Than a mere namesake.