Passion

You want to own, possess, that person in a way he cannot possibly hope to own himself.
You want to feel attached to the things he hate, thankful that they don't belong to him.
You will love the roads through which he has gone. The wind that might have caressed him. The skies that might have been touched by his eyes. The walls on which his hands might have rested. You want to own him without his knowing. You take the ways you think he took. You take in the wind which, you believe, has seen his heart. You envy the places he thinks highly of. You can't bear to think of him in another way, in another day.

You want to listen to him. You know he might not have interest in what you want to hear.. But the possibility of listening to him about anything, for all the times you will spend with him - like the thought of walking to the end of earth, under blue skies, by the blue seas, under trees shedding leaves, crossing bridges with the bluest water flowing for ages beneath them, with him - appeals you.

He possesses you as a passion.