there is a small portion of me

dedicated to you

some days

it sits at my fingertips or on the tip of my tongue, 

sometimes the balls of my feet or

at the bottom of my stomach. 

no one else can see it but me, 

and when you appear,

it is magnified, 

the way my head turns around

to search for you, 

the twitching of my hands

itching to touch yours when 

they're sitting on the table. 

this small portion of me, though, 

seems to be dying, 

gradually deteriorating 

as i want to dedicate myself 

to you less and less. 

this portion, no longer magnified

when you walk into a room, 

only watches as my hands keep to

themselves and as i cease my yearning. 

finally.