I'm her Milhouse.  I don't mind, not too much.  I want to tell her I miss her everytime she's not by my side, but I don't want to freak her out.  I grapple with game theory and wonder that none of this is for me, but I don't lust, and I don't crave.  She keeps me busy—she'll drive me crazy again.  She's practice for me, supposedly; she helps me with my jealousy.  I can feel in the pores of the air her presence missing, in the moment babe would have kissed me; the joke I made, she would have embraced me.  I feel grotesque, imagining you imagine someone kissing me.