I’d like to think it was a great poet who once wrote
“Got too much to care about; it sends chills up my spine: Too many feelings, with less and less time. Breaking my back and breaking my heart, these loves are tearing my mind apart.”
It wasn’t.
It was me.
This has nothing to do with anything.

I’m glad the galaxy doesn’t revolve around me; my lack of gravity would send everything spinning off into black.
If I spin faster, can I shake off the world?
Is her persistence merely delaying an inevitable departure, or is she here to stay?
And what about her?
Can I trust her, or am I entertainment -- her own personal car crash, her own train wreck?

Your cynicality is an inversion of your Romantic way.
Your alternate poles are respectively sadistic and masochistic, and it turns your world around.
Like a dog chasing its own tail, your paradoxical continuum will eventually tire.
Strong hands are worthless with weak knees, my friend.  

Maybe you ought to lie down.