There is love and there is lust and then there is looking at a man and feeling like you’re doing something wrong. Feeling like a little kid with its first crush — a sort of embarrassment that is laced with no guilt or fear but this sort of vulnerability that makes you flush red. A warmth you can’t quite place your finger on but it feels so safe and almost intoxicating really; a drunkness you assume only the cherubs must experience with their flushed, rotund cheeks so red and soft. Sometimes it feels like wanting to hide your face into a pillow because you’ve been reminded of your humble mortality and your weakness and it’s not bad, no, in fact it’s so raw and so genuine that it feels so good. Like the first harvest of the season. A new beginning, a new sparkle in your eyes. A new yearning. A new reason to cry not rooted in grief or loss but this unmistakeable melancholy that comes with this adoration because it’s so massive and so much and you’re so small and insignificant and it’s just so, so much for you, and you don’t know what to do with it. Just a speck in the universe. And you don’t know where to find the answer because they don’t teach you this in school and your family never warns you of this and it’s almost violent in how natural it is, like a slab of meat in a pool of blood. Its disturbing how it sickens you with its intensity but It’s so freeing and it’s everything and nothing and suddenly you feel so happy to be alive. You can’t look at him and you can’t think of him and you can’t speak his name but the thought of him fills you with childlike glee and wonder. Do you get it
