Your departure,
without exception,
contributes to
my coffer of
hoarded uncertainties.
And, only between
each pause for breath
and every passing thought,
bits of you linger.
I thirst.
I could label you cruel,
but to repudiate
my enthusiastic addiction
to your manner
would be an ode
to delusion.
I hunger.
This fever ebbs not,
steady in its course
of leaving me
stricken with shadows
of unworthiness.
I burn.
A congenial euphoria
has shrouded my
propensity to
seek remedy,
albeit capricious and
promising nothing.
I succumb.
© 2018 Tina Jordan, All Rights Reserved
Image by David Mao via Unsplash