Observations of a lovestruck teenager

His name rolls off your tongue like butter off warm toast,
intensely fulfilling and superbly delicious.
Tangled fantasies perpetuate themselves in your mind,
tormenting and tantalizing and strangely delightful.
Thoughts of him bring a feeling much like jumping into an icy cold lake,
on a warm summer afternoon:
a sudden shock,
then satisfaction.
When he speaks to you,
you cannot help but feel as though a million tiny butterflies have taken flight inside of you.
When he looks at you,
you don't know where your imagination had been wandering and forget much of the previous thirty seconds.
You cannot help but look at him, as well.
It is impolite to stare,
but when one is in love,
certain adjustments to etiquette may be allowed.
It is one of your favorite pastimes,
studying him.
The length of his nose,
the crease of his eyelids,
the exact color of his irises.
His eyebrows,
his mouth,
his cheekbones,
his chin.
It does not matter that this feeling borders on insanity.
It does not matter that this insanity borders on love.
It is not an obsession.
It is not unhealthy.
It is not unnatural.
It is wonderful
and amazing
and beautiful

and terrifying.
But, as long as you are crazy,
everything should be spectacular.