is how heavy it is.
There’s a definite
weight to it.
It bears down on the shoulders,pressing and shoving,
your neck twitches with
pressure upon it.
Your mind is awash withdeeply dreamed imaginings
that weigh more than the sum
total of yourself.
The weight of if bruisesits way through your
more rational thoughts,
making you lower your head.
The only way you think youcan lift that weight is by
her hands upon you. Or her
smiling eyes, twinkling at you.
Infatuation is a cruel state ofliving. It’s unfulfilling and bare.
It’s an anvil crushing down on you
as you heavily tread the streets.
It’s compounded by the numberof years that weight is upon you.
A brick of infatuation that turns
into a boulder of frustration.