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.