Smitten

I’m fucking smitten.  That’s all there is to it.  I get butterflies when I hear his name.  When I picture the flat, unbent bill of his black baseball cap.  When I think about his perfect smile and the way it feels when he kisses me and tells me I’m beautiful.  When I remember him running his fingers through my hair, grabbing hold, and snapping my head back in a moment of passion.  I can’t stand this.  It’s so not me.  I’m supposed to be a brutal, cold-hearted bitch right now!  I’m supposed to be treating guys like disposable cameras — get a few good shots, make some unforgettable memories, and toss ’em in the trash.  Harsh, yes, but that was me.  Me before I met David.  Me before I experienced real, powerful love.  The me I have been anticipating the return of.  Is it a me that will be but a faded photo?

Every little note that I get from him leaves me smiling from ear to ear and squealing like a little girl.  Shoot me now.

Felina Naranja