MayMetMo 2020 #31: Cure for Love

What is this ailment that confounds my soul?  Some sickness, disease, a malady of the spirit, a force that proves less than benign.   I’m pockmarked, beset upon by droves of symptoms.  nauseous, wildly unpredictable, vivid hallucinations of events that have not yet or may never transpire, I am sick with anxiety, worry, and fret.    A single target of acquisition all others have become dimmed,  I speak not to foe or friend without thinking of them.  Justice, imprudence, a fool of one’s self I am made.  The reason has left me, and in return offered no useful advice.  My skin is warm to the touch, a fever I’m sure, for I can not operate my body the way it is expected.  A turncoat in my blood, a traitor beneath the sternum.   My pulse is thready, skin clammy to the touch, So much terror for honestly not that much.  It’s worse when it lasts, after months or years, that yearning torture evolves into who I am, a fondness, used to, expected to remain, so when it doesn’t I have to relearn nearly everything.   I forget my speech, the voice cracks with emotion, I’m all the things I ever was, but all at once the ocean.  In my eyes, salt that stings, It’s happened before and will happen again.   This contagion, this plague, this never-ending diatribe. I wish there was a vaccine for matters of the heart, but people say to feel it is to be true, and pure.   I’ll keep washing my hands and wearing my mask, but for Love, there is no Cure.