Infatuation is a strange thing.
A bony creature thin with feeding on itself.
It is addicted not to its subject, but to its own vain hunger
And needs but a pretty face to fuel its rampant imagination.
It’s humid couch and sweaty palms.
It’s fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest.
But when conquering is complete,
the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted.
Disappointed even to the point of disgust
with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk,
emptied of its precious cargo
and left to fade like defeated naval ships.
A seed relieved of its transparent husk,
to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue.