It would be comical if it weren't so sad
How I find myself drawn inexplicably towards
Images and instances of you which still cause so much pain.

Moth to the flame - it's just nature - might explain this need found in me,
And I can't help but find the utmost pleasure
As I rub more and more salt in the wound,
Following each and every round with a squeeze of lemon
To add some spice and variance to the exquisite fair
That I have been feasting upon with my soul.

Try and deny it as I might,
It is in the depths of this despair that I delight.
Seeing your name is a shock and a stab
Of emotion that cuts so poignant and so true,
A breath of fresh air that makes me feel boundlessly alive
Inspite of the abyss it creates inside.