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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Your longtime friend
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