I Wanted to Ask

whether you missed me.
Perhaps you remembered
the smell of my fingers,
times I phoned you for small talk
and you answered 
with a thousand pointless questions
but never asked:
How are you?
Do you still love me? 
Would you like to go to the movies? 
I wanted to say
I never knew
how to find a simple sentence
that could hold my love for you,
my pains and fears,
my shut-eyed, secret wishes
so I gossiped about myself
and all the others.
I dropped a thousand hints
instead of saying:
I love you!
I miss you!
I wanted you to see
that I am not as beautiful
as I was with you,
as I was in your life
that beauty is a mirror
hung in your hallway.
Now that you don’t know
my address, I’ve covered
my mirrors with black cloth
and laid my dreams
in the middle of the room. I said
Don’t come back!
Don’t meet me!
Don’t call me any more! 
but even
as I closed the door
and put my back against it
and slid down to the door
and hoped nobody would enter,
it was you I wanted to phone
ask if there was any way
you could miss me,
if there was any chance . . .