I seethe with horror and pain and anxiety
at the thought that you no longer love me.
My pride, cumbersome and long, gets the best of me,
as it gets the best of all of us.
Catatonia sets in, lentils fight back with discharge and fiber.
I cry, spit, vomit, laugh, sleep, don’t sleep, yell, remain still.
I write poems filled with childish anguish and repetitive themes.
If it were not for poetry, we’d all have bulimia.
Calm sometimes comes, in a great blanket of tangible fog.
I realize that your love is not all, that mine for you is not either.
The value of you for me is paramount, untraceable, and not quantified.
The value of its value makes it so I cannot negate its quality.