my addiction

She is my madness, my addiction, my nicotine and caffeine. She is my hobby, my pursuit of leisure, my undying infatuation. She is my diversion from this reality and the diversion I find in my fantasies. She is my escape to another world and my reason to stay.

She would be the inspiration behind my sistine chapel, the meaning hidden inside my poem, the nude model of my obra, and the heroine of my story.

She is in every bubble of every bottled beast that I drink, be it hard, light, cold, or warm, nasty or smooth. Her face forms at every smoke I breath out, and every air I breath in I try to catch a piece of her scent.

Hers is the name that I would write at every opportunity I get with a pen--write on the wall, on a tree, on a leaf, on a bus ticket, on a napkin, on every piece of paper of any kind man had ever invented, or even on a mushroom perhaps.

She is in my instictive being of being, in between the involuntary poundings of my heart, on top of every expansion and contraction of my lungs. You'll see her in every chain of my thougts and in every neuron that signals a euphoric state of ridiculous giddiness or even a despairing moment of longing.

She is the word I whisper when I'm alone, the word I murmur when I dream, the word I desire for when I awake. She is the gift I want on Christmas, the wish I make before blowing the candles. She is in every prayer I offer every night and in every coin I toss on a wishing well.

She rides the cool breeze just before rain, or the beam of the sun every noon. And just now, she is even in the pictures that I draw--