Sonnet VIII

If this be less than bold forgive the tone;
I thought of ways to tell you this small truth.
First frank speech, perhaps you and I alone,
But I recalled the letdowns of past youth.
I write this sonnet now in earnest fear,
I've thought of it before, but my heart dropped.
I've set to ask of you, in my words dear,
And seek response before time's hands have stopped.
A supper quick, on a December night,
Six past the noon and second of the days.
A friend has gifted me this rich delight;
Think not of funds, for neither of us pays.
Gift my own heart with your response of "yes"
Or let it be, and never more progress.