I am pale —
	my heart is beating tears.
I am sadness.
Of all of the things I have lost,
I have the lost the ability to believe —
and yet, so much, I want to —
to believe in love
		free of regret, loss,
		or humiliation,
to believe in passion
	a craving for a special flavor
	rather than a hunger for anything,
to believe that I am special
   that in someone's eyes
   I am handsome,
   I am worth dancing with.
Oh, and it is so much to believe,
it strains credulity —
this is why I tremble when I think of you,
why my mouth dries when I hear your voice,
why I am pale when I see you —
I want so much to believe. . .
. . . and my tears flow through me
	like rivulets
	on dirt streets
	after the rain.