I am rash and impetuous. I rush in to the empty footsteps. You lead me through a miasma, my thoughts disconnected, yet constant: Everywhere I look I see you—your ghost. I see where you have just been, where you will shortly arrive. You linger like perfume on my fingertips.

When I saw you today I started shaking. Microscopic spasms inside. It was hard to breathe. I felt the blood fill my skull. I cursed the person before me in line who was using up an eternity, fumbling with her change. I needed to be with you.

I am stricken. You don’t want me, or need me, like I need you. It’s fun for you. But for me, such fun is trivial. There is something much greater and deeper that fuels me forward, towards this bottomless pit. I ache in every corner of my being. My mind is a whirlwind without an eye—I’m blind to all but you.

Your shadow intoxicates me. You flesh is contagious. I am like the man looking over the cliff. I am so close to jumping; something silent pulls me to the edge. The gravity is powerful. I jump, I know that the fall is thrilling, but that the impact is near.

How can I describe what is happening to me? You are the best thing I’ve stumbled on, and yet I fear you the most. How can such power radiate from such beauty? How can something so small contain such virulence?

Is there a cure?

The only salve is your company. And yet, like an appetite that breeds hunger with every bite, it is such pain. There is no satiety.

No wood can assuage these flames. No water can oust this fire. It must burn. And it consumes me. This isn’t love. It’s pyromania.

Every waking moment you are in the corners of my eyes. When I close my eyes I see your face. When I sleep, there you are. I cannot escape you. If I am a whirlwind, then you are a vortex. I am electric, and you my magnetism. There is no way to separate this duality—I am made from you, by you. I am, for you.