I know my standards should be raised from someone who hardly acknowledges my being a person, but every day of every week of every month the smallest recollection of you cause an overwhelming sensation of euphoria, not even happiness but euphoria.
I ponder the smallest conversation, the faintest touch; every piece of you gives my being more reason to go on.  And you don't even know it.  But still I say: euphoria.
When given the chance my mind runs races of just what we could be.  All far fetched--  all ungraspable fantasies, but the thought of us as one keeps me afloat.  Euphoria.

I force myself to stop, to grasp the truth instead, I loathe these sensational battles with what will never be.  But I always pray to feel it again:

Euphoria.