The strangest synapses are joined
When love is involved.
Lately it feels though my heart won't beat
Without conjuring another thought of you.
You're giving me a heart attack.
Beat.
Now I see those precious eyes, conjuring scenes of dark, calm woods in their mahogany depths. The smell fills my aromatic soul with earthy comfort, sketches of wooden homes carved from dense forests and thick soil. This is how our primal lives began. We should never have left.
Beat.
Now the voice that silences divine choirs for shame and humble respect. Angelic is the word, though angels jealously refuse to admit such harmonic richness could ever come from less than a deity. Even they could never match the emotions you raise with just a breathy hello. Heaven is a song in your voice.
Beat.
How could I forget that face: the smooth, elegant features bathed in that dark, enticing skin, flawless in every aspect. Perhaps you think me wrong in this, your bewitchingly humble nature refusing the notion, but I see in you only beauty. Beauty without comparison.
Beat.
Those eyes again. Like pearls of glass, the fire of their mould still burning bright in intense passion, yet never to intimidate. The energy is matched only in the comfort they portray. I see such calm in your eyes.
Beat.
Oh how that warmth permeates my every living compunction, my every dream and hope only a vessel for that intoxicating touch to visit once again. To hold you is purely bliss, as every fascinating curve of your body fills me with the warmth only love can claim.
Beat.
You do have such a way with children. The motherly instinct is as natural to you as breathing. Something so defiantly attractive glows from you, like a newborn star reaching out to every heaving cosmic consciousness to signal its life-giving crucible is in full operation. I don't even like children, yet this captures me.
Beat.
I have spoken clearly and directly of complicated mathematical theorems and psychological identities in front of innumerable people who's every purpose it is to judge me, and yet I can barely summon a nervous hello around you. How do you do this to me?
Beat.
Every aspect of your culture fascinates me, like a child first seeing their reflection. The music, the history, the cuisine, the languages, and most intrinsically the way you internalised them all while existing in this culture. When the smallest details poke out, I am enamoured with the ramifications, and I crave to share that moment with you.
Beat.
I crave to share all my moments with you, day and night, good and bad, painful and comforting, strange and familiar. Every significant event that occurs, my first thought is to share it with you - not to show off, nor for sympathy, but just to have it with you in some small way. Just to be the smallest amount closer to you.
Beat.
Are there words beyond love, because it does not appear to mean the right thing for me. Desire is out, require too demanding, need is disturbing, want not enough, yet none are so inaccurate as to lose favour. I know many languages, even a little of your own, yet I am without solace.
Beat.
That smile could make the dead smile back. It makes me understand why artists must draw, painters must paint, poets must painfully sketch their rawest emotions. If even the crudest mimic of that achingly beautiful smile could be recreated, there would be no need for war. Poverty would resolve, greed would abate, nations would shake hands to see that gorgeous shimmer in your happiness. I devote my being to making you smile whenever I possibly can.
Beat.
I wish you understood what you meant to me. You are my world, my motivation, my thoughts, my sincerest hope and dream, my reason to regain consciousness every day I find I must. You are so much better than my dreams, I choose to leave them, just for the chance of seeing you once more.
I shall spare the EKG for now.
The point is no clearer than it was
With every other sore pulse
Of this infernal timekeeper.
You won't leave my heart or mind
Alone for even an instant.
For heaven's sake angel,
I love you.
