You Alone

When I met you, I held a slim volume of my poems,
shyly anticipating rejection. You smiled and took it
to heart, those writings, as if you somehow knew
why I asked you alone to read about my light & life.

Everyone in past had nodded yes, and told me nice,
except they never even asked to see or read them:
maybe later maybe never they will somehow know
why I asked you alone to befriend my imagination.

Now you're gone, and I sit upon benches with books
summoned & assembled from these days without you,
unkempt in solemn volumes both ancient and new,
wondering if you alone know why they end, or how.