On feeling too old for crushes but remembering feelings of youth in having them.

I wrote this a couple weeks ago. In the midst of getting bogged down by adulting, it helped me remember what makes love, lust, or the mix of both so wonderful.

I try to be realistic and shape most of my life choices on not getting too excited or depressed. Though I notice when it comes to the burning of the loins, I can behave like a child.

It’s really delightful and shocking to me to realize how much being seen or the possibility of love can be like stepping into a time machine.

So that inspired this poem, impractical and impassionate.

When I think of you, I feel

Thinking of you makes me ill

I’m sick in the ways I can’t control myself. I’m too alive, I’m not measured. 

My temperament so angry but equally desperate for you to just look at me 

Aching at the bone to close every gap, so you’d know I care. 

My fever slowing my reflexes. I listen to the lull in your thinking though I’m impatient

But I feel sick, my stomach turns, I feel disgust.

My wanting makes me ashamed. 

I feel gross, I don’t know if you feel just as disturbed? 

I don’t think it will work out but I equally know it will? 

If I was better at taking risks, I’d bore your babies or tell you how much I miss your smile

I hate feeling, I hate knowing that I can bend.

I hate how naked I feel when I see you. 

I’ve rarely let myself be noticed, you stole that from me.

 I’m rational. I’m like a rat with you. 

I’m ill, I recall your visage after all this time. But more your being, the feeling of you 

What’s the point, I’m very good at solitude.

Your father would hate me, your friends would find me strange 

My family would hate you; my friend would find you strange 

But I’m still so desperate to be ill, that I’d die of your plague with a spirit of joy. 

That we’d fight but with love 

That we’d be strange and obscene to each other 

That I’d complain about you being too pig headed, that you’d know me well enough to complain the same 

That we’d make love and not fuck 

Or maybe we’d fuck in defiance, that we’d fornicate against our kings. 

Against the rulers who made us so proper. 

But I feel stupid, I’m ill, you couldn’t possibly feel the same? 

You look untouched by any sickness, like you could run a million miles ( away from me?) 

But I remember the look in your eyes, you sick fuck. 

Fin, Happiest Sunday.