Compulsion

 

I have no reason to
come to you, none.

Still, like waves rush
to the shore, for plane fun
I find myself moving towards you—
a magic pull older than logic,
a tide with its own stubborn will.

I run unto you as if
a deadline were pursuing me,
as if time itself leaned forward
and whispered your name.

You consume me
with an insane craze,
a gravity I cannot negotiate,
a fever I cannot undo.

With you I don't want to rhyme—
yet you remain my virtue,
you remain my crime.

You are the quiet death
inside me,
and still, you are my life.