Infatuation is a delicate dish.

Your name is honey-sweet
dripping from my tongue in dulcet tones
sweetening the page I have scrawled
again and again
with the loopty-loops of your name.

(And here’s a secret:
sometimes,
I write my name with your last name,
just to imagine a future as mrs. to your mr.
just to feel what it would be like to inhabit such sweetness.)

Your name is honey-thick
clouding my mouth when I’m stuck for words
obstructing my way when I want
to get across to you
all these thoughts inside my head.

Infatuation is a delicate dish.
It must be prepared with a light hand
throw in a dash of hope and mix in some bravery
for good measure.

You’ll know when it’s ready.

The End

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