I. It starts as a whisper not in my ear but under my ribs, a pulse like a black-winged bird beating against bone, a hunger with no tongue yet that still moans your name. Your scent lives in my skin long after you’ve left. Even the sheets smell like your hair, like sweat and smoke and sin. My hands keep moving when I’m alone, searching for the shape of you like a thief in a dark room. II. Obsession is a fever, a cathedral...