A sickness.
You feel weak.
Your heart becomes bigger and heavier.
What was once a soft, squishy mass has now become a pile of lead sitting on your
chest. Only they can lift it to relieve you.
You can’t eat. But it doesn’t matter because you’re not hungry.
Food does not feed the butterflies in your stomach.
Only they can fill the big, gaping hole inside.
You can’t sleep. But it doesn‘t matter because you‘re not tired.
Thinking about them keeps you up all night.
You find yourself dreaming about them during the day.
You can’t focus. Your mind cannot process anything except everything about them.
The way they talk.
The way they walk.
They way they smell.
The way they smile.
The way they laugh.
The way they fuck.
Not an obsession, but a possession.
A burning desire.
In your head when you think about them.
In your stomach when you see them.
In your heart when you’re near them.
In your hands when you reach out to touch them.
In your throat when you want to tell them how you feel.
In your mouth when you realize the words don’t come out like you want them to.
You wish they could flow easy and sharp like the wind,
But you find that they drip slow like honey off your tongue.
Ecstasy.
Pure bliss.
Nothing can get you higher than the sight, smell, sound, thought of them.
When you walk down the street, they are the only thing you see.
When you are in a crowded room, they are the only thing you hear.
When you look at the sky, you see them in the clouds.
I want to cry.
Not because I’m sad, but because I’ve lost all control.
All I have left is my breath, and somehow you’ve managed to take that away.
I feel dead, but I’ve never been so alive.
But it’s alright, because I know you’re falling too.
