i feel your obsession fading, and it draws me to you. i don't think of you as often as you'd like me to, but when i do, it's not without gleeful details filling in the fancy of impossibility. you skip meals to buy me drinks, fill your head only with words you can share with me. you pass out on the bus for too many hours to lie awake in my bed, stroking the hair spread across my back facing you through morning. you'll grow to resent me. you already do, a little, when you see my empty smile as you roll off of me. but isn't it exactly this immobility of obsession, inability to consume, the inevitable disgust at everything we once were, that excites you?