The difference between

Love

and

Infatuation

Is that love is an impossibly bright sky, but it is also the night sky

It is a stormy day, but it is also a sunlit afternoon,

It comes in flavors that we have not yet tasted,

It completes you in its presence and in its absence it is hollow,

Infatuation is the bright blue in the sky, but it is also the darkness of night,

It is the storm itself, and the sun burning above,

Its flavors seem sweet at first but quickly become sour,

It is a perpetual feeling of never enough,

It does not complete you,

But we all must feel it, for love and infatuation are often confused,

But I assure you,

The mask infatuation wears is not love.

Enamored.

Oh, but what does it mean?

I am enamored with you.

In which way?

Enamored.

E-N-A-M-O-R-E-D.

Verb; be filled with a feeling of love for.

Or

Have a liking or admiration for.

You are enamored with me.

In which way?

I know that I am enamored with you.

And I know in which way, too.

But this word,

This word that so easily slipped off my tongue,

Now catches in my throat.

We are enamored with each other.

But in which way?

Feelings
They come trickling down
Washing like waterfalls wonderfully whispering white lies in your ear
“Why don’t you listen?”
Enticing,
“Come closer, dear.”

Feelings
They come angrily,
Stomping like soldiers soullessly
hurling daggers at your heart
Waiting for it to start
Or or maybe to stop
Beating

Feelings
They envelop you in their embrace
Eagerly reaching like they need attention
or they will die
Yelling
Until everything else
Becomes a lie

Feelings
They are why we live
Holding fast to us like they will never let go
We know they won’t
For fear of leaving us lost, wonting
In a world without beauty

In a world without

Feeling

My first poem did not come to me
Shrouded in darkness
Not shuttered with wisdom
Nor carved with sharpness.

It walked with others
Hazily defined
It breathed my sorrows
It glimpsed my mind.

My first poem did not leap
Across the abyss
‘Stead wand’ring through meadows
Tracing Earth’s kiss.

It read all old memories
Built a new bridge
It called to the past
It raced through the mist.

My first poem was imperfect
Shapeless in ruin
Thin bone of poems proper
But extremely human.