Forty neighbourhoods

I feel you like an addiction to which there are no help groups. My hands tremble to write and listen to your voice, my throat is closed for having you at a distance of forty neighbourhoods. And I would believe that I need you to breathe. 

That I would not be able to exist one more day without seeing you because I am that I cry out of abstinence and your name is written on the streets. So at night, I see myself wandering in search of your presence as I need that next smoke of your bad existence and your attitude.

If they had explained to me that when I ran away from love I would meet you. I would have bought fifty patches and none would have helped to stop the need to have you close. To stop this itchy skin that wants to have your scent in my hair and burn in your shadow so to be able to say that I died the way a drug addict seeks.

T.A.