I vaguely remember when
last I felt the delight
or the pain and
so hurry not to fight
to seek either again

twenty five years or so before
a birthday greeting.
all but one her last letter
then silence each day meeting.
gone, nothing to say, love? no more

but it's no big deal, really, is it?
no one touches my shaggy eyebrows, so?
or tweaks my earlobe, looks
askance with a private smile, or slow
knocks on the door for a clandestine visit...

but it's no big deal, you will agree
the final letter - three words she wrote
in a hand unused to an alphabet
'finished is finished' - unexplained, I quote
but one year later, just single and free