Thank you, Merriam-Webster
Disturbing in its persistence, the idea of you:
I can’t seem to shake it. For some reason it
compels me, and often, to…
I am always preoccupied.
What does your hair look like now?; who do you
talk to most?; how’s your mother?; your father?; Leo?
I am motivated, but for the wrong reasons. A fantastic
notion sticks, it can’t be shaken. Make myself better,
some force, some agent in the universe will put
us back together.
How to stop an action that is so pleasant and so painful?
It never went away, that puppy-dog anticipation. It always
did prick me, asking, demanding, when will I see her next?
When the answer was obvious the anxiety was
I still have it! The back of my consciousness
tickles me with the question, (it won’t stop)
when, when, when
will I see you again?