Will you
tell me what is happening to me?

Why
can’t I listen to music or poetry or your sleeping sounds without the tear of two riptides pulling me in opposite directions?

Why
do my eyes adjust more easily to the unfiltered sun than that casual look on your face?

Is it normal to
feel flames on the inside of my skull at the sound of your name?

Why,
when I forgot what I ate for breakfast, can I remember your exact inflection, the lilt in your voice, the way that you rubbed the back of your neck and tilted your head to the side when you told me,  three weeks ago,  that the color of that t-shirt “isn’t the best” on me?

What do you make of
the spinning thoughts that dominate my mind but are only spoken in my morning daze between sleep and consciousness?

Have you ever
spent hours rereading my text messages, wondering what I meant by “please be safe?”

How long does it take you to
fall asleep at night when I’m not beside you?

Will I ever forget
what it’s like to wake up with your arms around me?

Is
this love?

And if it is
can I please have the cure?

-  Consultation (e.m.)