shares with satiety

a moment when the lights go on

and a surfeit of possibilities

present themselves:

She loves me and I am

the most complete of persons

or she loves me not

and I am a dead man, dead

after failed and dangerous

and over-ambitious hope.

What fed my faith,

looking out over the green field

at all of the stars, afraid

I might never find you,

determined I would?

Hope that called out

loneliness and the rages of wanting you.

Hope I repulsed then suffered

to intone, "I loved you.

I love you still, dubiety."