I find myself with a love interest; I find myself full of anxiety.
Butterflys wield machetes and I find talking difficult.
Instead of shutting up I fill the space with noise. I always hope it distracts from what a small animal I am.
Chemistry is marked by the churning of my stomach.
Crush is a reference to both the gut feeling and the affect even the smallest slight produces. A crushing of the chest that robs breath and cripples the system.
Those in the throws of infatuation don't eat because there isn't room for anything else.
I'm smitten
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