Songs of the Soul

The Lover, the Lunatic, and the Poet

I cannot explain the level of idiocy I feel
When
Even in public places
I see him
He thinks my asthma is worse than it is
Because I steal puffs of my inhaler more frequently when around him
He asks, jokingly, why am I so bad at breathing
If only he knew it is solely due to his presence
That to see him is to close my lungs
And cease the regular
In
Out
In
Function of said organs
I hate when I cannot keep a conversation going
Hate when he tries
Loathe it more when he stops
When he laughs with another girl
One prettier, taller
More stable
I don't know
How to explain why it is hard for me to even leave my room sometimes
How to say that listening to him talk is easier than talking myself
To whisper that hearing him passionately wax on about his interests
Gives me more happiness than reasonable
And how to precisely tell him
That he has made me
...
Him