Social patterns like chemical reactions, like an activity series of kinetic glances timed to meet, pouring the basics of attraction and attachment, (three factors constituting love: desire, attraction, and attachment), into days fluidly bonded into a continuous spectrum of weeks, amphiprotic and effusive and damned, a full month of experiential enthalpy and entropy. At first glance, insoluble, immiscible, an unshared pair, two electrons uninvolved in chemical bonding, as out of synch as oil and water, but proven in part false, the expected endothermic endpoint nowhere to be seen.
I dreamed of my hands caught in dark curls, as if they fell from my mouth like roses every time I said his name.
Studies have shown that brain scans of those infatuated by love display a resemblance to those with a mental illness.
I dreamed of his voice tangled in mine, as if his golden lion's breath and tongue was something I could tame.
Somewhere in this, equilibrium. Relief in small hidden places between moments, between voices. Words flowering away from the flint edges of the options given, (the punishing, complex crunch of serotonin spikes, multipath hypervigilance, stress triggered dissociation), into an interstitial place to breathe, where I can stretch my fingers to the answer in positive, (safety first norepinephrine, amphetamine dopamine reactions, oxytocin whirled with vasopressin), certain and solid, ionic attachment "more thicker than forget", and feel the new, incredibly delicate covalent bond, though insane, might finally be okay.