Obsessive Love

I should have written something about obsessive love

something about the way you do that thing with your hair

that makes me curse my existence and scream into the night

 

Something about how no flower could compare

to the way you touch and taint my dreams

with your waify fingers and my tear-stained sight

 

I should write a poem and send it to you

sealed with blood or a tear I collected long ago

and watch you burn it when you run out of wood

 

Sometimes when I hear that high note in that song

you may as well have written, it feels like my heart

being ripped out my chest or should I say my brain:

its all in your head, its all in your head

 

Well that’s the problem isn’t it?