Crazy Love

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.