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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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