Infatuation

Infatuation. Lust. Jealousy. Love. What is it about the presence of that person that drives us wild? What is it about the very thought of another human being that fills us with such strong desire that we suffer so at their mere absence, the pain of which we never knew before. Indeed, the hole in our lives created by that absence remains unknown to us until after the beginnings of that attachment, that voracious avarice we feel for their very presence. Why such a powerful urge to be around them when we have nothing to ask, nothing to tell, nothing even to do but sit and look at them and smile? What draws us, compels us to be with them? How can such endless joy be found in stroking their cheek or playing with their hair? Indeed we hardly give such affectionate attention to ourselves… how often do you stay up late to curiously explore the mysteries of your own body for hours on end? What joy do you take when pushing a stray strand of your own hair away from your face? There is something about her, something that escapes intellectual understanding and does not lend itself readily to words, for all words are trite in comparison.
It will make you into a fool. How can you be casually aloof when you are so desperate to tell her how beautiful she is, to beg her affection, to touch the flesh of her forearm? What hope do you have of appearing intriguing and intrigued but also disinterested during a 3-minute chance encounter when you have found yourself thinking of her again and again for days and days since your last meeting, when you held her in your arms, felt her body pressed against you? Every supple moment of endearing conversation is balanced on her scent, lost in the exotic fabrics of her hair.
There is no hope but surrender. It’s time to call…