Pining is nine tenths of Murphy's law of love

I see all this love. All this devotion and it makes me want to wretch.
Oft times, I am content (in the very least) with that which I have
obtained. But it isn't the same. It isn't the same as getting so
wound you're bound to spew. To breathe, sigh, live and die for that
one subtle moment of orgasmic recognition.
At first, a flicker in his eye, a tug pulling rank on the corners of his lips.
Then, a hand, misplaced in its rightful position on a limb curving into temptation.
Unto the blissful explosion of life as I knew it, an enraptured kiss followed by
complete and utter fulfillment.
Now exiled, the tumbling of his words would suffice. This alone my indulgence.
Letters slipping together, contorting until wrapped in melodic union.
Not unlike legs, limbs and minds on a night seared into my soul.
Embedded in my spirit, more engrained than any genetic code that he might have spoken of.
Forsaking all convenience I willfully abandoned comfort for boundless love.
And now I am bound, forsaken by the very fate which willed me to pursue beyond comfort.
This love, was not mine to savor nor his to return.