I wanna write about you. And I do. You drip off the end of my pen, Off the blinking line of my cursor, And fill up white space With the nebulousness of what you are to me; Your cumulonimbus formlessness. Enter. Pause. A moment of consideration. I am constantly unsure of what this all means. I love you. You’re bad for me. I might be bad for you in return. I want you. I don’t want anything and I burn for you, I write for you, I pine when I am a creature of pragmatism and action. You don’t want me the same in return, if you do at all. The absence of you is terrifying. The absence of you was a relief. With you I am elated. With you I feel as though you slowly pull my heart apart, As though you forcefeed me hope, For I am unable to do anything else but wish for— Change —when we are together, Though I know it is impossible, Unlikely enough to deserve the word. I can see the planes of your skin, feel Them beneath my fingers I can trace their lines with my mind’s Tongue. Wishing is pointless with you. I know this and still cry for the moon.