Is This Love or Mere Infatuation?

I do not stare,
At her curves and curls.
I refrain from ogling,
At her assets.
I spare myself ravenous glances,
At her luscious and succulent lips.
The epitome of beauty she is
The citadel of shyness I am.
Frenzied passion,
Or Physical Attraction,
Is this love,
Or mere Infatuation.


All I wish,
Is to relax under the shade,
Of her cascading locks.
Resting my head,
On her lap,
And emblazon the serenity of this weather.
To embrace her,
To dispel her uncertainties,
And to hold her hand,
Amidst euphoric rains,
And desolate thunders.
To undress her conscience,
And make love with her thoughts.
The paragon of excellence she is,
A definite introvert I am.
A mystifying obsession,
Or a wounded abrasion,
Is this love,
Or mere infatuation.


I wish,
To drape myself,
In the meadows of her enchanting smiles,
Somber giggles and childish sobs.
To be crucified time and again,
By her killing snarls and snivels.
To remain buried in the aroma,
Of her clasped vivacity.
An impossible summit she is,
An obstinate challenger I am
An exquisite addiction,
Or an elegant aspiration,
Is this love,
Or mere Infatuation.


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