Desire

I ask.

What you did, what did you do,
that I am become a brooding madman? All
happiness expended
on keeping thoughts of you at bay.

What you did, what did you do,
that I fight phantoms in my head? That
cloud my vision and taste
for that which is real.

What you did, what did you do,
that this frenzied lust
(for that but which exists in the spaces in-between
my synapses)
haunts insidiously every fibre of every starving muscle,
like slipping poison.

What you did, what did you do,
that you are become the locus of Beauty
in my half-awake brain.

...

I would wish for
Freedom,
from this suffocating desire. But I fear
that to lobotomise this love would be to silence the taste-buds of aestheticism. No,
I accept this, but
A little more control is all

I ask.