obsession.

obsession, they tell me,
is a tragic thing.

constantly constantly constantly
constantly constantly
constantly.

they (they) know
nothing about the burning
sensation, odd prickly fevers
that overwhelm if you
don't count the stairs down.

it's 24.
it's 23.
no wait it's 24.

i think.

she's so beautiful
that she makes my heart
just
fragment into
a million different
kinds of pain.

no, she doesn't know who
i am,

yet.

not yet.

nor does she know
that her tiny rubber hair-ties
colourful ones of
green, purple, black, orange,
yellow, blue, pink, grey, stripey pink
white, indigo, brown, navy,
lime green, beige, red,
are all lined up
ever so neatly
at the bottom of my drawer.

no,

not yet.

but soon.


and it's 23 by the way.

. Arigato .