Yup. Still Distracted

Recently I was asked if the object of my distraction was still casting his little spell on me. That would be Mr. Distraction from my post of September 18th. And the answer is, yup, still distracted. He occupies a small corner room in my brain, separate from the monkeys' quarters for his own personal safety. Do we really get any better at this sort of thing? I would like to know! Because this feels just as silly, just as embarrassing, just as rushy as it did when I was a teenager! At some point I am hoping that this thing will just burn itself out. There clearly is never going to be an appropriate time or setting for me to either blurt out some sort of confession or act on this ridiculous burning desire. Then it snowed last week. And I allowed a tiny, little disclosure slip out into the real world. An impulsive, mildly risky prank. I lost control for maybe all of fifteen seconds. And then I wrote a poem about it. For crying out louder than necessary! Writing a poem is the absolute indicator that I have been gotten to, at least for me it is. This girl does not squander her artistic way with words on just anyone! So here I am. Suffering pitifully from a crush on someone I'll never be with. He might as well be George Clooney. Except that I've never been sufficiently moved to write a poem about George. I'm so grateful that I have practically no impulse control over writing. Finding the words to express what I feel and know and to describe what I observe often saves my sanity. Quiets what sometimes rages within. And best of all, keeps me from taking myself too seriously.

ILY Anonymous

I know it was foolish
But I couldn’t resist
Tracing ILY
In the newfallen snow
On the hood of your car
I reassured myself
You’d never see
My frosty declaration
By the time you returned
Either the relentless wind
Or the still falling snow
Would have covered
My amorous confessional tracks