To define "smitten":

I think about you way, way, way too much. I would be a liar if I said this has never happened before, because it has. But I have never yearned for someone the way I yearn for you. These days, every time I think of you, I miss you. And I want you here. As if I already knew what the feel of your body was like pressed to mine underneath the covers. As if I already knew would it would be like to absorb your warmth while winter winds ravaged around us. As if I already knew what the smell of your neck would be like, all Irish Spring with a hint of neck sweat. I don't know these things, but I will.

I need to get it all out, I can't talk to other people about you so adamantly when they can't be bothered with such inanities. I bit my tongue so much today, as I was with my sister. She asked me about you and I wanted to tell her the world, about you about me, about everything we could be. But, no, I just said, "he's a boy, and I like him." That is all I can ever say.

It is not that I am infatuated with you, I think maybe, perhaps, I am past that. There are so many things I want to share with you. I want to cut open my chest so you could see the exact placement of all my organs, and sew strands connecting them to the tips of your fingers so you could have this control over me, at the twitch of your thumb. It may be the late hour, or the desperation and need I feel to just have you here, but I wouldn't mind giving you all the control.

Here comes the bite of the tongue, the firm knock on the door: silly, silly heart, I have to keep you in check before you run off with my sanity.