SMITTEN

I really must, for my foolish feet, get help;
How dare they run miles and a mile more,
Towards feet that, towards them, dare not take a step?
And you heart, must have forgotten your role,
Beating like a deranged drummer every time I see her.
A mere ‘hi’ fills my stomach with butterflies;
Vocabulary vaporizes except mhm, yeah and huh.
Her beauty, rules of physics and nature, defies;
For even on a bitingly cold winter day,
Her beauty sends sweat out of my skin’s every pore.
Hers is a league in which try as I may,
The substitute’s bench I wouldn’t make , let alone score.
     How brutal of Fate to ferociously deprive
      Us, of what we dearly and desperately crave.