Complete Infatuation

Complete infatuation.  Utter submission.  All he did was walk by.  Or did he float by on his charming horse?  His perfect teeth?  His perfect face?  Oh the agony.  Me.  Ha!  Just a peasant.  Always yearning.  Always looking up.  What is his name?  Does it matter?  Do you ask the name of a flower when you look upon its beauty and smell upon its petals?  Or do you just relish in its perfection?   He doesn’t know I exist.  I never knew he existed until I saw him in a crowd.  His face so out of place, but so familiar.  Comfortable.   Do I want him?  Yes.  But could I have him?  No.  I would ruin the feeling.  I would only hang on to him and bring him down.  But if I cannot have him, then I will suffer in my darkness of love for him.  I want to touch him.  I want him to want me.  I want him to hold me.  He doesn’t know I am alive.  If Romeo never met Juliet, would the world know such a love?  My love for him.  I have not heard his speech or felt his touch or smelled his scent or caressed him with my mouth, but I have seen him.  True love at first sight.  Oh, oh what sweet sorrow is this?  It is no longer a feeling of want but a reality of need.  I want not to ruin his image by placing myself with him in my thoughts.  I would ruin the perfection of his personae.  My heart’s cries for love fall among his beautiful but deaf ears.  Complete infatuation.  Utter submission.


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