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An Open Letter To Infatuation

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An Open Letter To Infatuation

Hello, infatuation, my old friend.

I felt too comfortable with you. Like a ridiculously soft hoodie and warm mocha on another bland, tedious winter’s day. I knew each and every nook and cranny of yours.

Beneath your sparkling eyes and smothering smirk, I was fully aware of every single game you’d lead me to play. And, fully aware of the preceding side effects, I gave you permission to demolish my walls, one by one. You crumbled them right in front of my eyes. It’s a predictable ritual; a non-programmable state of mind.

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After countless attempts to rid myself of you, none worked. “Time heals everything,” or so I was told. Your undeniable charm hiding your true intentions caught me starry-eyed and vulnerable. You’d gently caress me in my weakest moments and darkest nights. When the slightest peek of sunshine emerged, I was then greeted with a strike on the face followed by a knowing grin.

Consumed by the passion inside your penetrating gaze, I was reminded of the times you’d whisper words of affirmation into my ear. Your words dripped off of your lips like melted butter; your kisses as sweet as honey.

Oh, my melodramatic self saw all of those crimson red flags in the plain. The escape was easy; all I had to do was to bid you a firm farewell. Choosing otherwise, I threw consciousness and logic out the window without a single glance back.

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You were more powerful than any addiction encountered in the past. There was no over-the-counter medicine to combat the butterflies and electric tension. We were like moth to flame: always close, yet never close enough. Had I gone too close, the story would be no more. From my first thought of each waking moment to the final thought before dozing off into a slumber, you were there.

Sometimes, I wondered if you had ever thought of me. I would then recall how you never remembered my birthday without the aid of social media. I would remember how you’d disappear for weeks without notice. I was so accustomed to living on the edge; hanging by a thread.

The days felt like weeks, weeks felt like months, but I would always be awaiting your response. And the next one. And the next one. It was a routine that thrived on spontaneity, ironic in its existence, illogical in its consistency.

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Darling, thank you for blinding me. Thank you for opening imaginary doors that directed to new doors of opportunity. But most of all, thank you for helping me realize my self-worth. Without being pushed down to what could only be described as a prison of lingering uncertainty and fear, I would never be aware of how strong I really was. I said goodbye, and the results were ethereal.

I found time again. Energy, again. Even dignity, again.

Suddenly, I could walk through that little path in the forest without your scent looming. I could listen to that musical piece without envisioning what we could be. I could write without your name etched in the back of my mind.

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Infatuation. You’ve been quite the handful, being that grey area between the fiery sparks of romance and peaceful waters of friendship. Throughout this journey, I finally realized that you only have enough control over me as I’d allow you to. All that insomnia and over-contemplation has led me to who I am today. And of course, I don’t regret all the bad poetry I wrote.

It’s been a while since we’ve last had a chat. Perhaps I can take you out to coffee sometime to talk about someone else I’ve met.

With gratitude,

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Your longtime friend

Featured photo credit: VividScreen via splendidwallpaper.com

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