Sick?

Leaping at a word
that may seem yours
(yes, yours)
call me a drooling lab dog,
if it please you,
and be you right.

Surprised?
Multidimensional
in prospects,
expectations
and alternate realities
when there be just the one.

My thought in its tiny might,
seeking to bend spoons,
unable (or is it unwilling?)
to turn a corner.

Sickly,
my interest you'd call.
Sickly I might be,
if I was to call you
(yes, you)
the most wonderful disease
I ever contracted.

It's my disease,
not yours,
(of you indeed)
though one
I'd hope be infectious.

Hope's for free, after all.