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A lady told me not too long ago that maybe I was in love with loss. Reading that made me bristle, which might mean it's not far from some kind of truth. Someone else called me fickle. That stuck in the back of my throat for a week or so. I could neither cough it up or swallow it down. Fickle to me means indecisive. Like I said before, a frivolous need to nibble every bon-bon in the box because one cannot make a selection. I asked her for clarification. By fickle she meant that what I seek in relationships is the want not the satisfaction of the want. I thought of the Nick Cave lyric in From Her to Eternity.

The desire to possess her is a wound and it's nagging at me like a shrew

But I know that to possess her is therefore not to desire her

So then you know, well then you know, that little girl will just have to go...

Both of those formulations kind of hit the nail, but not quite squarely, on the head. In any case, the eventual outcome is probably not good health.