The Perfect Drug

You know what?

I love you.

I'm not going to try to say it in some fancy-scmancy poem or mask it behind a clever story. Love is not fancy and it certainly doesn't make a person very clever. In fact, Love has made me a fool for you.

I can't stand the way you can be so passionate with me for one night and so utterly cold the next. It disturbs me how we've to pretend nothing ever happened and act like everything's normal. You're well aware of my feelings for you but still you deny me. I'm beginning to wonder whether you speak the truth when you tell me you feel the same.

All I ever want from you is to allow me the pleasure of waking up next to your lovely face, to hold your hand, to kiss your lips as and when I please, to make you coffee in the mornings, to give you backrubs at night, and to listen to you speak about everything and nothing.

Whatever. I don't know what I'm talking about anymore. I'm feeling a little silly at the moment. I've been sick for the whole of yesterday, shivering with fever and senseless with nausea. My whole body is in pain and my throat is on fire. It was a miracle I managed to hobble out of my flat to have lunch and sit here in the cyber cafe.