It's possible we could be scientists in love,
dopamine elbowing into my frontal cortex,
chemical messengers bringing envelopes
and papercuts, living red dashes of hush
and breathing: love is when you know
your name is safe in someone else's mouth.
Both love and madness slide with serotonin,
adrenalin, the letters in slave milling through
larger, groping words, saliva.
The hunched shoulders of my building wanting
to push everyone but you away. And
I could be on a leaning train, thinking.
The strangers like sparrows all around.
A train that groans and pulls like a mule,
knows tunnels of midnight get to brightness,
the moment I kissed your soft lips and wanted
nothing else, at least for that moment.
You make me want this world, each test
tube and tree above a battered, toxic van.
My holy oxytocin, my lovely vassopressin.