I am a slave to possibility —
you might, perchance, tell me that you love me.
I keep my cell phone always at my side,
check my email more than I should,
read every billboard, check every paper,
and glance from time to time to see if there
is writing written in the sky.
Patience is not a virtue for lovers —
time and distance are ancient enemies —
I am helpless against this desire
to sate my thirst of you,
thus, I conspire.