When the fog comes, I always get lost, a throbbing that pumps
me up like a balloon, shaping me into the strawman, stirring up the broth until
I can think of no one but her, convincing myself I want to think of nothing
else.
This fog that creeps through me, that steals that part of me
that might otherwise resist, as fog that fills me up and makes me ache, losing
myself, in my continual search for love.
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