Love. Sick.

What sweet delirium,
This fickle fever come of feeling.
Deceptively burning with unhealthy need,

So lovely,

Distracting…weak in the knees..

Weaker and weaker, as you continue to bleed.

Where is the vaccination to this sensation?
Inoculation against a hopeful dream.
A less destructive variation,
That shields my heart and keeps it clean.

I could always increase my vitamin C,
After all, wasn’t that bowl of oranges for me?
Oh, I see,
I never knew that it was actually empty.

You really could have fooled me.

This is a progressive disease,
It starts when you arrive, and grows when you leave.
Like it or not, something painful is bound to stick,
Making you sick, sick, sick.

So you howl your pain, like a wolf at the moon.
Knowing and not thinking,
Feeling and not saying,
If I ever see your lovely face again,

It will have been too soon.

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