Dear Fernanda,
I see your shadow
on the edges of my history.

I see the paths
where you trailed your fingers
along the dust of
forgotten bookshelves

so you may
skim rapidly backwards
through my stories.

I hear you pedaling quickly
through the aisles of
all my fears and passions,

and the last time someone did that
they were threatening to burn it all down.

I am not so much afraid
as curious;

if there is someone that you love
that you hope to find in the cobwebbed corners
of past mares,

I assure you that
this potential lover
is real

and could just use a tender talk from you

if you are so much more inclined
than to peruse my past for moments.