Epilogue: #67 Answer and Conclusion.

A journey's end.

It's been over a year, 

Miss.

Since my last poem to you.

Things have changed.

Maybe us both.

Or at least, just me.

So you told me last night.

And maybe that's my fault.

We don't talk much lately.

After 66 poems, I was finally able

To start something new 

With someone new.

But J was a disaster,

Then more followed after.

And every time, after

To you I came.

So maybe it's my mistake

You would think that's all I wanted.

From a friendship between you and I.

When women are unfair

Just someone 

To whom 

I could cry.

Not at all my intention.

You just always seemed so busy.

With things that didn't involve me.

And didn't need to.

Quite frankly.

But sometimes times 

Are especially painful.

And you were always there

For me.

When I'm being a handful.

Wasn't planning 

On getting you involved

In my latest endeavor.

As I spoke to another friend, 

Picking up all the pieces,

These poems came up.

I showed him.

He said, "She should see this."

Surprised, I had no real objection.

Not much left to hide.

All the feelings at one point

I kept bottled inside.  

So did you find it, Miss?

Did it click right away?

Near the end?

In the middle?

Or have you not yet found my hidden Answer to your Riddle?

For that study, 

You presented a great Challenge

With no good solution in vision.

No sudden revelation.

I guessed wrong, 

Couldn't see.

The Answer was

Simply,

To conquer with 

Dedicated accumulation.

If radation was the cure,

but needed intensity, deadly.

Apply small amounts,

Treat the tissue, 

Slow and steady.  

If no army could pass

Through the enemy wall,

Send them bit by bit.

Build the force inside

Quiet, 

With groups that are small.

So too, I realized, 

I must deal with this so.

For the pain inside me sat

With nowhere to go.

If I couldn't tell you

All I had to say,

I'd work it out

On my own.

Writing a poem each day.  

I'd process all my feelings

Some happy.

Some grim.

Some 

Incredibly 

Ugly.

But they were my feelings all the same.

Put in word and in verse.  

And in time, 

I had done it.  

The impossible feat.  

The improbable ends.

You are the first woman 

I was able to go back

To just being friends.  

Though I have to admit

A certain dread

Here,

As I write, plainly:

After it's all said and done,

Do you hate me?  

Never meant to hurt you.  

Never meant to conceal.

Just had lots 

Of things

At the time

About which

I didn't know how to feel. 

And so here they lay

Testament

To the feelings

In memoriam

Of the man

Who once upon a time

Loved you.

[Though I still do,

In a way].

The man

Who wrote

66 poems.

Dedicated.

One for you.

Everyday.