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 imaginingsthat weigh more than the sum
total of yourself.
The
weight of if bruises
its
way through yourmore 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.
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