I found an old poem tucked away in a book I had forgotten. It was written, presumably for a gentleman I was particularly smitten with (or perhaps I was exercising my literary penmanship, I don't quite recall). The constant "first dates" (and no more thereafter) that New York life is prone to can be quite disheartening. But when you find that someone you connect with...

Muse

Do not presume to know me,
I am a mere illusion.
Bright colours
in the sky.
Escaping visions
on a dark night.
Calliope
of dreams.
You stand
silent.
And I try
to quell,
what you have awaken in me.
The weeping that comes
not from the eyes,
but from the soul.