The Verdict

Head infected with
images of her,
everywhere we loved
each other.

When did my love
become obsession?

    Was it on the bathroom tile?
    The kitchen counter?

Trying my hardest
to keep a clear head
for the impending summation,
but stuck in
    her reverie.

No one understands
why the risk was worth
the torture.

    I think it was
    the small couch
    in the back room.

She's calling out to me
in my dreams,
some would deem nightmares,
a haunting.

    The small of her back.
    The nape of her neck.
    Her lip, bit.

This is my doing.
    She tainted me, my world.

This is my undoing.
    I call out without knowing.