It’s still called love in my neurons.
It still remembers.
The difference between your hair
three days after a shower
or shortly after it was washed.
One is earth,
the other, where the pantheon of
Roman gods and goddesses bathes itself.
But I’d take the Earth
where the big sun goes down over
the prairies to the West
turning everything to orange
the white light of the gods’ atrium
creates your essence in the suspension
of my cortical tissues
and the clock genes
in my suprachiasmatic nuclei carry on
with their information from a much bigger
story of the Cosmos.
That is where I keep you,
next to the logarithmic pulse of eternity
and the remnants of stardust that continue