I won't spare you

I think I've got a disease and
it's killing killing me,
from the top of my lungs to the bottom of my feet.
screaming screaming nonsense to nonentities.
I think I'm a parasite,
taking until you just won't give anymore;
too close for comfort but too heavily dependent to go.

I don't know how I will survive
without
the moon in my window,
just out of reach.
Tide's going out,
moon's waxing, waning, full and then empty again.
My blood's pulled around,
moved by the phases of you.
When the moon moves too far,
shifts away,
stops controlling the heat of my body,
how will I breathe?
How can I laugh,
without my blood stretched too thin?