It started in a coffee shop
Where you worked
Four days a week
And I knew the hours
I knew it with a deep visceral longing
With a terror and a joy
A forbidden pleasure that sickens me
And I tried very hard to let you be
But you took the town over
With the musk of a presence that I longed for with the whole of my being
All the while, the quiet and logical part of my disrupted mind reminded me that being near you was not appropriate
How I loathed that Vulcan presence
But I heeded it more or less.
And as you became attached to all the little places
In this quiet little town
I knew I had to leave
in order to let my violent need die
And now having lived in a far off state I sit at the SeaTac gates
And the old familiar clutch of deaths bony palm on my soft intestines squeezes, and a small anxious voice whispers
What if she gets out at this gate?
Do you now own the whole of Alaska?
If I find you move to Chicago
Will I quail at O'Haire
With the small chance that you're there?