He is my addiction, the single occupant of my imagination.
I have tried walking him off. I have tried drowning in the puddle-filled concrete of the streets, only to be rescued by my insatiable thirst for him. I have tried, in extreme desperation, to sleep him off. But my dreams are of him.
He is the gandharvas personified. He is a designer drug. He is my midday dose of iced café latté. He is late night TV and the early morning weather report. He is my favorite song on the radio and the soothing voice of mood music. He is a detour on a crowded highway. He is the gentle rainfall that pours unexpectedly on the hottest summer day. He is the rustle of leaves on romantic afternoons. He is thunder and lightning on a no-school weekday, the final bell on a Friday, the steaming water on a freezing morning shower.
He is as precious as the sunrise and as perfect as the sunset. As fragrant as a newly-bloomed flower and as mysterious as falling stars.
He is my addiction, the cause and effect of my free flow emotion.
His touch, his words and his kiss are forever imprinted in my skin, my mind and my soul. I breathe in and the air smells of him. In the far distance, his laughter rings softly, yet clearly. He fills me with welcomed happiness, and I feel a certain glow when he holds my hand. He is as real as I am.
I cannot elude him. Somebody save me because I have fallen in love, and I cannot walk away.
He is past obsession-- he is my addiction. He is the bittersweet truth.
