Infatuation

I think — I think I give up. I resign, retire, deprecate my hope, for you infatuate me. The captivation has triggered a realization, unveiled a pattern: what I want to happen, never will, and I have never wanted the possible.

Infatuation is the love of my life, lifting me up to be dropped from a height perfectly calculated to hurt rather than kill me. And in the moment before I fall, I look up and see exactly where I want to be but my wings cannot take me there; my wings are painted on so that my passages to the top feel a little less artificial...

It is not over, but still, I think I should just give up. I have not yet reached the height of my fall from you but you should know I already brace myself. Sometimes I dream that this time I can fly high enough, high enough to look into your eyes and that your gaze will be as steadily locked as mine is; maybe you'll reach out a hand so that the expected plummet doesn't come?

But I dream when my eyes are closed. My eyes are open now and they look up at you, for you infatuate me. The captivation has triggered a realization, unveiled a pattern... and my muscles are tense in readiness for the descent. But each time I blink I dream that my eyes will open gazing into yours and I will have risen past infatuation, past impossible, past distance, and into time, together.