She gave no numbers./
Why should she wonder
about/
Friday solitude?

How to end this?
I’m not certain.
It’s like viewing a sunset’s bliss,
then drawing the curtain.

Perhaps it ends with a heartfelt statement,
almost trite
(but not quite)
in its simplicity:
Do you think it was meant
for you to write me?

Memories of other, older lovers,
Or dreams of them,
Could only be written
Because of what you uncovered.

Not meaning to tear you apart,
Nor make you doubt;
But you exposed my heart
And let cloistered, forgotten feelings out.

And I, not knowing how to control
Feelings locked up so long ago,
Set my soul, heart and mind
To discover and see what I could find.

It is only now I’m beginning to see
That what I longed for stood in front of me.