Feeling, Habit was called, when she was still in her inception.
Then she grew, feeding on the gloominess that you gave.
Then she matured, tall and mysteriously beautiful
as you dressed her with your glamorous melancholy.
Then she was in love, madly she was, and gave herself complete
to the great mesmerizer called Arts.
Then she demanded, the moment you lost her hand, that you took her
down the end of the aisle carpeted red and forced a ring-bearer.
Then she was pronounced, the little Feeling was, Habit of yours,
and expectations are, for better or for worse, escape key you cannot press.
She then is mine, and I hers, Habit nicknamed thinking about you.
And one day I will find, at that brief moment of her omnipresence not,
with a silent sigh, a whisper says to me: forgetting you I still am.