Call me insane,  
call me crazy,  
forty poems for the same guy  
who does that?  
But try being in my head.  

I can’t stop thinking about him.  
Nothing helps.  
At first, writing these poems  
was my escape,  
my calm in the storm,  
but now  
he’s the storm,  
the calm,  
the everything.  

Even in my sleep,  
he’s there.  
I dream of him.  
I dream of the poems  
I write for him.  

And every time I hear his name,  
my heart tightens
like someone’s squeezing it  
until I can’t breathe,  
like he’s stolen my reason,  
like I can’t think,  
can’t be  
without him.