Anticipation
has rippling arms, can carry a load
much heavier than you and carries you
without complaints,
then walks past your neighbour’s house
and pulls them onto his back, as well.

Anticipation infects — a disease you’re pleased to welcome in —
like wanderlust, or smiling stupidly.
He is southern charm bottled, chestnut-roasting-on-an-open-fire eyes, a rabble of butterflies
beating their wings for a gasp of air.

He is a strong infection,
enough to get you through
the healthy normalcy,
enough to get you through
and change you,
enough to get you through
but make you hungry enough to stay alive.

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