Dear T,

I love you so much it makes me sick. It literally makes me sick.

I'm in the waiting room to see you, and I feel my heart beat. No, I am a heartbeat. It's not just in my chest; it's my entire body. I'm a human drum. Reverberations are sent from my core to the edges of all skin. All sensation is rhythm. Am I going to vomit? Yes! No! I'm crazy. I'm not crazy. Will I faint? Perhaps. I see your silhouette in the hall, out of the corner of my eye. Your face is as composed, delicate and eternal as a Grecian statue. My head feels like it's expanding. It's all in slow motion. I try to look preoccupied and only look up when you call my name.

I can't understand how the chronic nerve pain can leave when I'm in your office, but the waiting room overture is always so torturous. Anticipation and fulfillment do a number on me. They alternate, ebb in and out. Like the heartbeat.

I love you.

I'm sick.