Patience

I believe in the separation of fact from feeling --

a moment should be observed and the correct direction will be taken

after deliberation and a skinning of the subjective.

And yet I find myself sprinting after ambiguous emotional assertions,

the vague amorphous positions of unbridled whimsy.

I cannot argue why I have replaced logic with you.

It's been a month since I've heard you speak

and normally I could have convinced myself to become less attached.

But instead I find myself dwelling upon the way you curled up when you laughed

and how your lips tasted as I lay on my back.

I would assert that this is far from healthy,

but when I imagine myself without the reassurance of these remembrances

an emaciated anemic comes to mind,

exhausted and malnourished.

Reason is hidden somewhere on the tip of your tongue,

and I fear I must kiss you to find it again,

to change myself back into the creature I strive to be.