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I'm not in love with her; it's more than that, I'm haunted
I'm not in love with her; it's more than that—I'm haunted.
Every time she looks at me, I feel the Earth tilt,
gravity trying to pull me closer to her.
She's not just in my thoughts; she is their architecture.
I no longer dream; I merely relive conversations we never had.
I replay her words as if they were sacred relics, even when they're mundane.
She could say "pass the water," and I'd write a dissertation about it.
It's ridiculous, I know it's ridiculous, but that doesn't stop the magic.
Her name has become the password that unlocks my impulses.
I see earrings and wonder if she'd like them; I imagine her everywhere.
She doesn't ask to reside in my mind; she's conquered it without remorse,
and I let her, smiling like a fool as she changes my logic.
I've lost count of the attempts to shake off her spell,
but all it takes is a glance, a word, a smile, and I'm caught again.
She's not a habit; she's a phenomenon, and honestly, I don't want a cure.
She hasn't destroyed me; she's redesigned me, and I've loved every second,
every moment of my inner demolition and reconstruction.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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