I did not want to be here (again):
thinking only and always of where you could be
where you will be
where I might go and pretend to study, just to feel your
small blaze as you walk through the room.
it is childish, probably unhealthy; I might
justify obsession
in the name of love, but anyone
could justify anything for love;
it is too grand a cause, too transcendent, to excuse me now.
I would like to unwind myself, to fall into your smile
and the shifting, falling color of your eyes;
I am also sick of this. I want to return to being satisfied
with my token academia.
I wanted my next love
to be mutual, to be real.
What is the point of this thing unrequited,
this hormone-mad depression?
What is the point of finding all happiness
in the unknown?
the last pavilion 