Sitting here, thinking of you,

it’s like Chinese water torture.

You know of it, I’m sure–

the type of torture which involves

water dripping slowly and steadily onto

your forehead. That’s all, no

bamboo shoots up the fingernails

or anything gruesome like that,

just a steady…dripping…of…water.



That steady dripping, a process

you can’t stop, drives you crazy

eventually. It’s psychological.

If you’re lucky, you don’t lose your

mind. That’s what it’s like for me


right now, sitting here, thoughts

of you dripping onto my brain

like water onto the forehead.

It’s torture, thinking of your face,

your hands, your smile, every perfect

part of you. There is no grinning


torture administrator standing over me,

his Fu Manchu mustache drooping over his

lower lip, and I am not in a dirty, dimly

lit cell somewhere in the South Pacific.


Instead, there is just you, the

prettiest torturer ever, smiling

down at my prostrate form on your

pristine torture table, wondering what

I am thinking about, not knowing that

I am thinking of you.