Neurobiology Of Love

True Love


If, as
you claim, you’re just
a stain on my nervous
tissue, what colours do you make
in me?

The words
I use talking
about you are blooming,
fresh, exaggerated orange
plumes, springs.

Distance
between us shows
black, I suck, it implodes
in a crimson tide, dissolves us
both pink.

All my
so critical
social assessment dulled
networks detached, sulking grey voids,
blankness.

Reward
circuitry lights
up yellow bulbs, zingers
of unbearable happiness,
true love.