Decades ago, the waste of infatuation
hidden in my wallet pocket
a crumbled rose, a piece of stale
chocolate waiting to be eaten
something, anything you touched.
Then I see you
years later in a storefront.
The movie is fast forward, the
sound paused to mute.
After a moment, there are words
between us, your eyes focus
on my lips talking.
My eyes focus on your gray hair
and wrinkled forehead.
Infatuation
What kind of word is that?
Why does the meaning
become a blur of words
and all the youth of my life
come sliding down a mountain,
pooling at the bottom of your feet.
Louise Marie DelSanto
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/infatuation-ruins/
