for herself

He watches her face as she writes out hope.
After that first kiss, he broke her heart once.
No more. How many years? Does she still hurt?
She’s still, focused on truth with elegance.
He wants forgiveness for all he did once.

These years of small gifts, all those she offered,
ones he hides in his own drawer of secrets,
blue words written on loose sheets of paper.
He worries that her heart-seeking regrets
will find him, that they’ll sting like secrets.

He reads the calendar, aware of this date,
as if one day were enough to worship
at her knees, her eyes, her form, her face.
He serves her dinner—an everyday dish.
His offering to love. His active worship.