The nervous tics, the gesture, and the jitters,
The pacing back and forth and forth and back,
The soft self-chuckles, while your tension fritters
Minutes away in nervousness, the slack
Hand at the wheel of self-control all point
To some distemper slightly out of joint.
What is the matter? Please do not believe
Because I list my clinical concerns
That your misfortune does not make me grieve,
For it is love that, melancholy, learns
The every deviation from the norm
In watchful care of that it loves. I see
These perturbations from your standard form;
What troubles you? I beg you to tell me.
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