I’m thinking of you. It’s true, with short interruptions.
Any page of my personal diary is filled with your image.
I’ve stocked you everywhere, but nowhere so well
as in my mind and soul. I painted you with fingertips
on my body. I sang and called you out. And when
I wandered myself, I knew where to find you. You’re
in my weirdest/wildest dreams where you waited
for me so many times and where you always are
like a straitjacket with your arms over my body… —
like the only drug that I can digest and that I hardly wait
to be brought to me, — You… — come, drug me, babe.