The thing is

The thing is this:    
Six days seem like sixty,    
And a lonely excuse not to seek you,    
Lies forgotten, lost inside the rest of me,    
That keeps on biting nails, and counting hours,    
And keeps the search alive.    
 
The thing is the fire kindled,    
The water stirred,    
And a wild, recoiling wind.    
 
The thing is a vortex writhing,    
Restless, aroused in delving, not finding.    
 
The thing is a mystery unsolved,    
A question, left unanswered;    
The quiet background hum of the falling rain,    
A silk blanket shunning the worldly dread,    
But a sudden lightning, also, a blaring thunder,    
A comfortable warmth, as well as a sudden chill.    
 
The thing causes whimsically bewilders its host,
The victim of its ploys, vandalized by its violent weaving.    
 
The thing is vile a coward, dodging every effort of my doing,  
Every attempt at defining its patterns.  
 
The thing grandstands, as it defies everything.  
 
As it makes my time its prey,    
It harvests with patience the flame blazing,    
The sickly sweet flavor upon your sight,    
It manifests too clearly to the night:    
I am here to stay,    
To make your seconds, ages,    
To hunt you down,    
Until you hunt her, in your turn.