I sit by myself, with much disdain,
With only my mind, how inhumane.
Not for the cliché but for her touch,
And I think of her simply too much.

What’s come over me? This is not fair!
I think too much on those pretty thoughts,
Her lips, her nose, the smell of her hair.
Inside my heart, there lie the small knots.

For I’m sensitive to love’s ***** bites,
And these abrasive, yearning of nights.
How can I stand it? Must I submit?
It only happens when the moon is lit.

When the hours grow, a bit distant.
When time stretches so, I can’t see her.
That’s when it starts being persistent.
Then it strikes fast like a saboteur.

Venus or Cupid? Who to accuse?
I hope that it’s not all lost in vain.
Though you might think it, I’m not confused.
This is what I call love rotting the brain.