Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

Nestled somewhere inside my
head, next to pictures of you,
are tiny tidbits, crumbs have you,
of conversations. Pauses as I 
watched you be.  Smells of
cigarette smoke and scented candles.
Like strobe lights, they flicker
on and off, leaving phantom
images deeper inside my brain
and triggering responses in my
muscles and cells.

Disorganized, you'd cringe at the 
clutter it makes in my mind.
But I've come to enjoy the
slide show.  It feeds me moments
of our life together,
morsels of you.
Some unpalatable when you were
alive, have become
delicacies since my ego no 
longer reacts as it did when
you lived.

Psychiatrists would have a
field day. They'd strap me down,
attaching electrodes to my skull
and set their gauges and gizmos
to high, to trace and track the
energy that exposes these curious
slide shows you've left behind inside
my brain.
They'd lock me in a padded room 
wrapped up in a straight-jacket, if
I told them the energy was love.
They could not measure it,
define it, reproduce it in some
solid form, so they could poke and
prod and interrogate it until broken
by torture, it would explain how
it came to be.

Too bad for them.  Love happens
when nothing more than a 
smell or a touch opens a
pathway to the heart and we
can feed on the signature it
leaves behind, forever.

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