Everything

If you were just a dream, I would not know

the way to rise from sleep, for here you are.

I wax and wane with time; you do not go.

A thousand miles away, you are not far,

yet never are you quite palpably here.

Like aether, you pervade the void of space

between my greatest longing and my fear,

between a source of pity and of grace.

I made my proposition for your love.

If you had even noticed, you were mute.

I hooted like a gleeful mourning dove;

I came on like a reverse-prostitute:

“One hundred sonnets for the lowest bid…”

I asked you to give nothing, and you did.