Infection

Your departure,
without exception,
contributes to
my coffer of
hoarded uncertainties.

And, only between
each pause for breath
and every passing thought,
bits of you linger.

I thirst.

I could label you cruel,
but to repudiate
my enthusiastic addiction
to your manner
would be an ode
to delusion.

I hunger.

This fever ebbs not,
steady in its course
of leaving me
stricken with shadows
of unworthiness.

I burn.

A congenial euphoria
has shrouded my
propensity to
seek remedy,
albeit capricious and
promising nothing.

I succumb.