All this infatuation.

I have a crush on someone at the supermarket. It's funny because Jenny always said I expected love to happen in the midst of romantic moment in the aisle in the local grocery store. She said it would be the milk section. This man has nothing to do with dairy- quite the opposite in fact. He is a fishmonger. Antique and romantic too, I suppose. I once started a short story about a Korean butcher named Hank who dealt mostly in seafood and cheese... maybe I somehow willed this crush into existence. He's from Guinea though, and I don't know his name. Crushes are like dreams, and dreams are built on ideas, and those are merely spilled ideas that find a way to dry in the dark, so I imagine it can't be too far from the truth.

I have a crush on someone else, too. He became who he is long before I wrote a single word or heard his heart beat against the weight of my ear. He's as distant as the end of a sentence, and I hold on him to like a comma clinging to an Aside. Others exist out there, though they aren't as well, crushing. Like the skinny tattooed man that casually smokes outside a bar down the street from work. He has a cool lean to him against the bricked building wall that makes my cheeks turn rosy. The Fedora doesn't hurt, and last time I think he had on suspenders... POP.

I have crushes on my memories, on days, on an hour of your time... They are all filled with the same joyful angst as any of their parent-personified. I think my first real crush, we're talking puppy love here, was on my cousin. Sounds shameful, but I merely thought he was beautiful and interesting. I was 7. And Beauty is reckless and subjective, though not much has changed by way of criteria. Except the part about being related. That I let go off soon enough to chase boys with Saint names like Andrew, Thomas and Patrick around the playground.

While those week days linger too, the real intimacy is in Sundays. I have a crush on Sunday. Long, beautiful Sunday, always brushing the line between the birth of a new week and the end of just a little more time on my hands. I used to long for hands; flush at a firm handshake, close my eyes to nails on my back, sigh for fingertips kissing my skin. I'm infatuated with lips, too - smooth contour in the shape of a spoon. I like that too. Metallic to the tongue, static, aligned by shape and form... I'm not necessarily talking about silverware... I have a crush on someone I mixed moments with, and those moments have a crush on me.

Truth is, I'm crushed. Nothing is ever as it seems, and I am buried under the weight of searching. Searching for something right, true. The Beatles say you gotta carry that weight a long time, so for now, I'll take that advice and try not to smother myself. All this infatuation is hard to keep tabs on. Maybe one Sunday I'll have a little space in time, and someone can give me a hand... Just a little squeeze.