You’re an earworm, an itch, a fish-bone stuck in the back of my throat. I get stomach aches thinking of you. I float into a state of delirium, with every new text from you popping up on my phone. You’re no good for me, woman. The worst. Still, I find myself unconsciously drifting towards you, every time we’re in the same room together. All day long I make plans, hundreds of alternative futures, where the only constant is you. Surely, there has to be a better way to love someone than this? If so, please do not tell me, cause it may not be you.