I’ve read stories about
people who believed
love was a disease,
and I believe them, my dear.
I’m weak in the knees,
the heart,
the soul.
I’m sick to my stomach when you’re not here,
I’m high with a fever when you are.
I can’t focus,
I can’t sleep,
and when I dream,
it’s of you.

You’re a cancer
that I’ll never remove.
You’re a cough
that’ll never disappear,
you’re a sickness
I’ll put up with for the rest of my life.
Your love is a disease, my dear
and I hope they never find the cure.