Addicted to Love

Addictive personalities can't see beyond the now,
lusting for the thing of which they must have more.
Each delay, emergency. Every day with drama
of its own and some to spare. It's how
they live, from fix to fix, no matter what it is
they crave. Sex, drugs, shopping, alcohol,
religion, exercise, it's all
about the Thing. The cigarette, the pill,
a television show. I understand the draw, I know
the power of that missing quantity.
Most people, if they're honest, will
admit to needing something, something more
than ordinary level, need to such extent
their thoughts cannot go further on until
they get a fix, feel satisfaction in the
moment when they get that morning sip of coffee
or sit down and write a poem, know the
pavement's sigh beneath their feet as lethargy
gives way to lengthening strides. Darker lusts
with twelve-step groups and legal woes aside,
we all, or most, at least, could name some
passion, whose gravitation daily, nightly,
pulls us through these mundane lives,
gives meaning to existence.
What's mine? you ask, and I'm surprised.
I was so sure you knew.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013