Spit of a Fly
I had given her
A fly’s spit,
In my season of plenty,
As if I had not known,
As if,
It had not been revealed to me
Before hand;
Time enough to wash away
Any flash of doubt,
And just how doubt
Had ruled my conscience then
Kept riling my psyche then,
Then redeemed to the
Sanity of real love,
I beheld her each day
As she tore herself apart to care for me,
She was not trying
To prove anything,
If anything,
She had always been the one,
I was not going to be stupid again,
For her I was not.
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