Addiction to melancholy

I don't know why I always come back to you, but I do.
I don't know why I cherish the foolish idea of being an angel watchin over you, but I do.
I don't know why I stupidly look at your vanishing picture in front of my own deformed memories, but I do.
I don't know why I still dream about impossibles that I fought against in the past, but I do.
I don't know why I simply forget about you, us, but I don't.
I don't know why I am still entangled in what could have been an "us", but I am.
I don't know why I still care about you, but I do.

Because, perharps, I know I am addicted to a non future I have made up myself of broken pieces, lost in the melancholy of my thoughts that always, always, point at you.