you make me hope, again

you stir the embers
of discontented want
fly-ash longing
as if they had
never been stilled
by the cold of
intervening years.
you make me want
love
hope that all will be well
at least this time around.
you speak of longing, losing
of honesty
of being vulnerable
of being just the way
you know how to be
when in love
you speak my language
or that smattering of it
that i had long given up
for dead
remnants from
a season of hope
long ago
that told barbaric
tales of longing and pain
suffused into a dim afterglow
after the memory.
you make me believe
that love, want and need
and companionship
are possible
and not just the stuff
of dreams
you agree the body does not lie
oh! you speak my long-dead
language
much better than i did,
than i dare do now.
you make me dare to dream,
albeit with a certain dread
you distill hope from nameless
fears
that have all but paralysed
me.
you make me trust
the ways of the heart
however wrenching
however sad
however scarred
it may lead me.
you fill my despair
with quiet spirit.
can i trust thee
to share my void?