maybe you are my new nervous tick, because let's be honest, I'm a little obsessive. and if it's not you, it's the person after you. the person I can't recognize because I am so blind to everything but what we had. it's my involuntary physical and mental attraction to you that makes me tic, makes a tic, that is my tic. it's repetitive; calling you Friday night after Friday night, believing it may fill me up without drowning me out. but I'm empty, I'm always empty. I don't mean to involve you, and I know you think I do this because you're still my everything, but you're just a something. a physical preoccupation I've yet to overcome, as you're always in reach. cover up the void you've left behind, never fill it - that isn't your place; tics are not mutually beneficial. we in no way help each other. do not know a way to help each other. you aren't my saving grace; you're the bad habit. the phantom limb I need to forget. the tic to fit my criteria: close, but never here. available to hold me, but in holding me you're making my tears. could you ever fathom such a senseless incongruity? and just where are you now? you're holding me in the darkness but I know you don't feel what I feel, won't ever feel a thing. me ignoring the truth of your coldness, the brevity of your affection - tics like your timepiece. maybe next Friday night, it'll be different. maybe next Friday night, I won't need a tic like a crutch, won't be crushed. until then.