A dim and distant agony.

It is easy, so easy, to be sick with love, for love is like a sickness in the belly, in the soul. It nearly needs no object, but the faintest semblance of a name to cling to, a faded portrait, something distant that may be pined for in private.

I think sometimes that is how I love you, sickness-wise; that I am only in love with you as a tangent to how in love I am with being in love.

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