I want you to fall in love, with my mind.
They say that romance is dead.
Aesthetic adoration is too easy to find.
I will dig deeper, doting the components of your head.

I ask that you return the favour.
No need for laboratory lobotomies.
There need not be forced labour.
I wear my heart on my sleeve.

And my mind on my mandibles.
I speak it. Repeat it.
The source inches above my clavicle.
It is replete with ****.

But it has it's moments too.
Though it's subject matter is grey,
a lot rings true,
from this pinkish purée.

I want you to find the harmony,
with my spinal chord.
And say with absolute certainty:
We will never be bored.

The feelings, that from my brain stem,
will be fully frontal.
From my toes to my cerebellum,
I would be yours, in total.

I want to fall in love with your mind.
Invest me in your intellect.
It will take time.
But it's all temporal in introspect.