I'm in trouble. I knew I should have run. Sometimes my body, my soul senses danger before my brain can fully process it. I was hesitant, scared of seeing my ex, and scared of the feeling. But ever since our first date, I knew I would just be fighting the inevitable. It's electric, like lightning. It's wild, like a forest fire. It's an all-consuming black hole that no part of me can break free from, no matter how hard I fight it. God, why? This is the last thing I need.
I haven't written in years, but this is so bad, so intense, that I need an outlet. Music, dancing, singing, and working out aren't cutting it. I'm lost in my head, engulfed in my thoughts, replaying daydreams over and over. The longing they represent is almost enough to manifest my desires, to bring them to life. An imagination allowed to run free with thirty years of consuming media and life experience still only creates probable scenarios. Reality, however limiting, is still a magical fantasy whenever she's involved. Picturesque moments, so simple but so full of joy and love—these, and actual moments shared, are all that play in my head at any given time.
I don't know exactly when it became an obsession, but here we are now. She's all I think about. From the moment I wake up to when I go to sleep. Even while I dream, she is ever-present in my mind. All this thinking is for naught. Alas, the moment I am in her presence, my mind goes blank. All the poetry, words more beautiful than the sunset, refuse to come out, for fear that they would pale in comparison next to her. Exciting conversations meant to stimulate the mind are nowhere to be found, for fear of boring someone whose knowledge is so varied and vast. I feel so frail and anxious around her; I don't know how I don't disintegrate into dust at a mere glance. Oh, and don't let her touch me—I'd melt. I'm putty in her hands, a puppet with her pulling the strings, a mere plaything for her amusement. As sad as that sounds, it is actually such a wonderful existence, simply to know her, rather than to be of use to her.
In her arms, I can't speak, I forget to breathe, yet I have never felt safer, and I want to stay forever. Eternity wouldn't be long enough. To be seen by her is as addicting as it is terrifying. I love it, I crave it, I spurn it, I hate it. The intensity of it all is too much, too fast for me; I am drowning myself in my own unrequited feelings. But I can't stop. The feeling is more than I can bear. I've developed quite an affliction. I've become a fiend.
Here, in what should be the quiet meditation of the night, I find myself restlessly putting pen to paper, trying, albeit forlornly, to get this feeling out, to find some small amount of respite. It comes quicker than I can write, in flashes every time I close my eyes. Just to blink is to see her, is to be back in a moment with her—a beautiful, torturous prison of my own making. A dream? A nightmare? Maybe something in-between? No, it is different, its own thing, an entirely different entity of its own design. Torture all the same, though. It physically hurts to feel so strongly about her. I am constantly fighting back tears, not because I am heartbroken (though I shudder to even try to grasp what that would be like if I feel like this after a month), but because I forget to breathe, and that makes my chest hurt. Because my head can't contain nor process the joy from the constant bombardment of my dreams. My heart beats so loudly, demanding to be heard, that the muscle overexerts itself, causing pain. No human was made to feel this deeply. I don't know much, but this I do know: there are fewer leagues in the ocean deep than there are limits to the profundity of that which I care for her.
