Is it raining only over my head?  The canyon fills, and I can no longer tread.  It’s almost over my head.  I'm drowning, drowning, drowning.

 Is the air thick only in my nose?  I'm suffocating in the memory of your throes. I cannot take a breath. I want to forget. God knows I do, but you hold my attention, like only you know how to do.  

 Seems that every step that takes me away from you, you reel me back in, like a fish you keep on a line, to tire until I finally resign.

 Full of contradictions, you've become my addiction. How do I heal? Start here: You. Are not. Real. You're simply a creation of my unruly imagination, not the real deal, only an ideal, an imagined perfection dreamed up in spite of myself and for the sake of myself.

 You started as a mere seed, and I allowed you to breed to fill a need, an insatiable greed. A character for which you auditioned, and I gave you the part. A false comfort you became, reassuring my heart.

 I’m addicted not to you but to the feeling of thinking of you, a sensation that I belong to something, something more than me, my world, my thoughts. 

 If I let you go, my thoughts circle back to me, to my emptiness, to my loneliness, reminding me that I will never find happiness inside, a futile search that always leads to an abyss so wide, I cannot cross. Still I’m lost.

 Yet my futile search continues but always tends to lead to that same dead end, turning me around, until I feel found. Right back. To. You.

 The more I give the more it takes, an insatiable hunger, an incurable ache. This addiction always seeking more, More, MORE, a never-ending craving, always wanting more. 

 So instead I surrender, forget that I never wanted to remember, endure, my heart burning like embers, replacing those thoughts with temporary hints of fiction, continue nourishing the addiction, belonging, but ever drowning, ever suffocating.