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Personal Note:

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Poem

L

I. Of Circuits and Litanies

Somewhere between the limbic lobe
and the ache of late-night Eucharist,
you touched me—
not in flesh
but in the soft mutiny of neurons.

They do not teach us
that synapses pray
in the tongue of longing,
that oxytocin sings psalms
in dim-lit corridors of the amygdala.

Love is not a metaphor.
It is a switch,
a slow-burning heresy
of selfhood dissolved
in the damp chalice of another.

The brain forgets to defend itself.
That is the miracle.
That is the sacrament.


---

II. Limerence as Liturgy

You smiled.
And the frontal cortex fell
like Jericho.

Dopamine, the drunken priest,
spilled wine across
the altar of my cognition.

Even the thalamus,
solemn gatekeeper,
dropped its keys
and wept.

I built a cathedral
from your silences—
half-Buddhist, half-blood,
a trembling scaffold of maybe.

We are baptized in limerence,
born again
in the gaze of the beloved,
our default settings
re-scripted
by the accidental liturgy
of touch.


---

III. Rewiring Eden

There was no apple,
only mirror neurons
echoing your hurt
as mine.

No serpent,
but my own past
hissing
in a language of trauma,
until you held me
in recursive forgiveness—
and the garden rebooted.

Love,
a divine malware
in the hardware of reason,
reconfigures
the self into plural.
I become “us.”
I become
sacrament.

And the limbic system,
that cryptic chapel,
chants:
Be not alone.
Be not a tomb.
Be rewritten.


---

IV. Final Benediction

In the end,
the theory is not general.

It is specific.
It is your name
coded into my neurochemistry,
a sacred glitch,
a remembered warmth
across cold synaptic distances.

And though the world is ending—
always ending—
my brain,
reshaped by your tenderness,
continues
to believe
in resurrection.

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