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.

Your answers, though quick,
read like poetry themselves.
Waves pounding the shore.

When you understand
that a woman
is, by design,
tender and refined,

you don’t feel the need
to rush in with speed;
to plunge headlong
with drooling, forceful tongue.

Instead, you rely
on the touch of a butterfly
landing lightly on a new flower:
Then she’s in your power.

When you can feel her breath
almost begging you: “Next!”
and can taste of her sweetness
as you hold her face in caress,

then
is when

you can feel, and give her,
anticipated bliss:
That gentle, tender,
yet passionate, kiss.