It is not, again, all so very well

There are times in a man's life when he cannot properly control his needs.
The thing that I want is too expensive to pay for.
Is it a thing of beauty? To continue on with this wording. This, this sadness.
It is best, I believe, to pick an audience and stick with it, and forget the others.
So, who is my preferred audience today?
What is preference? What is it based upon?
I think I'd prefer it to be a lovely lady. But then, is that really the best thing to do?
Shall I, rather, have an audience with the world?
I can tell all, and hope to seal it up in words and forget;
or, I could direct my sad and perplexed emotions toward the lovely lady;
but, in that case, it would make much more sense to just send it directly to her, via text or something.

I think what really needs to happen is:
I need to change my opinion on the matter. To reveal my worst fears, and to accept them as fact.
She does not love me; it is not the true love that I was dreaming of that night.
She kissed me, and it was unexpected, and it was intriguing, but she didn't mean it, so then perhaps I can view it as only intriguing, and no longer feel it as the enchantment it has been.
She was entirely intoxicated; therefore, though she was free with me and allowed me into her bed, it in no way reflects the real level of trust she has for me; but, who says drunkenness is not realer than sobriety? What I really need to distinguish is the several sides of her view of me. Mildly under the influence, she is at rest, and is friendly to me. Heavily inebriated, she is not thinking straight, and will not remember, so it does not matter I suppose; I would do well to remember this next time. Sober, she is sometimes curt, sometimes a doll.

This writing is such a mess, I know this very well. My mind is as well.

I suppose my worst fears perhaps are not fact; I cannot prove them as such. They are at least a good indicator (at least); they are probabilities. Structured, strengthened by time and experience in the field. If she's not into me, she's not, and that's all there really is to it.

I tend to think that, if there were to be love between us, the image I have of it would need to be wiped clean and redrawn, again, as it ever is; and, in fact, this sort of thing could go on unendingly, until we were very old. It is that I was so very over her; I have been pretty much clear of feelings for her, for over a year; and now, this has occurred:

the forgotten kiss

Is it just that I wanted something so badly that,
 even though my thoughts were almost entirely platonic,
  I let this forgotten kiss wrap me in a cloth of enchantment?
I had forgotten the feeling;
 I had written such things off
  as impossibilities.
A brief daydream, then
 less than a week goes by,
  and she is in my arms,
   so to speak.
Who wouldn't jump to conclusions?
And yet, as things return to their natural rest,
 my living heart remembers--
  an unlikelihood, brought into reality.

Dumb that it couldn't be real. Or then...
But, probabilities.
I should restate that. Here:
   Dumb if it's not real,
   Not so dumb if it's real.
   Likely not real, though,
   So most likely dumb.