The Tempest/Haunted/Stupid Boy

It's 2AM.  I should be sleeping.  I have work in 12 hours, but sleep alludes me as usual during the summer.

I feel raw.  My heart beats, but it's beating only moves desire around, not blood.  The Tempest.  

Stupid boy.  It's the truth.  I hate him in this moment. Why couldn't he just leave well alone? Kept his stupid poem to himself.  Now I feel jaded, tormented, tourtured.  Now I know those feelings are there.  His entrance begs the question I wish I could answer.  Stupid boy, and now I'm haunted by his face and his memory.  

Stupid boy, I wish I could forget you, but I'd have to forget me.