Oh Poetry

Every time I think of you, I burst
with anticipation as innate as the sniff
and salivation of a pup,
tail wagging and fur standing.

My naïveté is so easily stifled
by the familiar pang of doubt,
the reminiscent, daunting ache
of hope unfulfilled.

I am enamored with the pain
you’ve produced,
and reproduce,
and long for this
grave cycle
to continue,

for my sickness to stay
and fill these holes.
I cannot justify my affliction,
but know
there is no other solace

like being pulled to the page
and finding you there.


All Rights Reserved: Elizabeth Bohlander Wilson