Infatuation is such a beautiful word:
Tragically co-dependent; inherently passing.
Ships in the dark, mesmerised,
By a place better appreciated alone.

I liked to think one day we’d pass again:
Opposite train platforms like before.
A simple coffee in your hand, a book in mine.
Listening to music so loud it drowns out doubts, and dillutes reality.

There’d be a longing deep in our chests to run to the other,
The ease to fall back on train tracks,
To grab you, and to hold me,
To cry and be Past again.

You can tell me that giving me up,
Passing me was the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do-
But you never gave up your hold on me.
Deep down we both know I never stopped loving you.

At last on the platform, I never left.
I am Past. An ode to your passage away.  
Restrained to follow to you, I became lost.
Waiting for a different train to take me away.

Searching for comfort in hunger and
Living in gasps and freezing showers. --
I know I am more.
Why won’t it pass?

You exist only in the image I built of you,
And the memory you left me to cry over.
It can’t consume me. It is mine.
Maybe infatuations are so true to oneself that this is how they should stay.

It’s hard to believe that you will ever be inconsequential in my life,
You are separate from what can be.
Transcending the passage of time and place.
Your memory will forever be my first romance.

I can live with that.
I can hold onto that,
Even if I can’t hold onto you.
Please pass.