I am not a poet. I am a scientist. I can measure the exact frequency of your voice when you speak my name, but I cannot explain how it resonates with such perfect clarity down my spine. I can describe the process by which you inherited your mother’s hair and your father’s smile, but I cannot explain where the twinkling galaxies in your eyes came from. I am baffled by the apparent gravitational anomaly that draws me to you with a force far too great for your size. I know of no way to quantify the volume of your presence in a room.
I am not a poet. I am a scientist. Prose is not my specialty. I will never be able to combine words to craft sonorous verses as easily as I combine chemicals in a flask, but know this – to me, you are every bit as fascinating as the view through a microscope. To me, you are a mystery greater than any cat in a box, and are fraught with as much uncertainty. Each day brings new understanding of you, and the knowledge that there is still far more to discover.
I am not a poet. I am a scientist, and there is nothing a scientist loves more than the the pursuit of discovery.
“What a thing,
to be both starving and empty.
To ache for love—
to take the scraps from it’s table,
and yet, run sickly from the feast. You can’t fathom why I’d
gobble your kisses but
duck your attention, please.
Understand— Some of us have gone so long
hungry,
the idea of being full
feels worse
than the affliction.”
— LOVE DISORDERS AND OTHER OLD HEARTACHES, by Ashe Vernon
