Heavier than Remembered

The funny thing about infatuation
 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 with

deeply dreamed imaginings
that weigh more than the sum
total of yourself.

The weight of if bruises

its way through your
more rational thoughts,
making you lower your head.

The only way you think you

can lift that weight is by
her hands upon you. Or her
smiling eyes, twinkling at you.

Infatuation is a cruel state of

living. It’s unfulfilling and bare.
It’s an anvil crushing down on you
as you heavily tread the streets.

It’s compounded by the number

of years that weight is upon you.
A brick of infatuation that turns
into a boulder of frustration.