Everything I touch,
Feels like a memory,
Of when you touched me,

Can I ask why you're still here,
Cluttering my mind,
Dominating my thoughts,
And making my body ache with longing,

Touch me,
Or walk away,

The choice is yours,

But I have no choice,

You have burrowed yourself under my skin,
And I can't find a knife sharp enough to,
Dig,
You,
Out.

I am a therapy of sorts.
I can listen to your woes
Massage your tired feet
Perhaps make you some cookies
Or other kinds of treats.
But I am not medicine.
I cannot cure all your worries,
Or stop the consistent aching in your heart.
I cannot stop you from going over the edge
Or tearing yourself apart.