poem: the third boy (but i swear it’s different this time)

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?

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