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 and 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 and assembled from all the days without you,
unkempt in solemn volumes both ancient and new,
wondering if you alone know why they end, or how.