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There used to be a picture here I drew

that you wrote on. You gave it a good caption.

More beautiful than I could draw made you,

with words, the scene I drew in my adaption.

But someone took it. Threw your work away.

Yes, yours, not mine, it was, though you don’t know it.

No soul was hurt for losing it that way

but mine, for with you did they also throw it.

For you left, too. You’re not here anymore.

The caption was the last way to get to you.

If you had not gone, I would not so pore

on what you wrote, that’s gone, that took me to you.

But now its ghost remembers you, and I,

the only one who still recalls your eye.

~~~

I didn’t say enough. That must be it.

I didn’t make enough of me well known

to let you question me, even a bit,

on what things I had tremulously shown.

I didn’t ask enough. That must be it.

I didn’t pry enough to show you how

I care so much to know your every whit,

but though I asked the whole time, who cares now?

I didn’t try enough. That must be it.

I didn’t do enough to make the prim

of every part of every preference fit

your heart’s own just and very human whim.

I tried to know that heart, and I learned much,

but on my heart you wouldn't look nor touch.