Not the Stillness of Death

So, I’m a romantic
I don’t see love as transitory thought or process
Rather, I see it as an eternal struggle.
The opposing forces aren’t good versus evil,
They are courage versus cowardice.
It starts as a fascination.
The object grows beyond the bounds of normality.
There is something…different, more noticeable about the way she talks, or smiles.
The small things stand out.
They are unknown, so simple, yet so powerful.
We fear that which is strange or foreign
And these fantastical mannerisms or glitter of the eyes can strike an icy stillness over the heart.
Not the stillness of death,
But rather the stillness of hibernation, of waiting for the sun to rise again.
The hibernation is not seasonal like the slumbers of beasts.
Rather, this cold silence is self-imposed
In fear that if the sun shines forth again, there will be pain in the thawing.
To wake is to step out of the wintry cave and bask in the spring sun,
To experience the ticklish pain of thawing flesh and be warmed by healing rays.
The quantification of this feeling cannot be excised by simple words
It is not a part of the body that can be examined on a lab bench.
The feeling is consuming, like a fire, or a whale
Searching for fuel and sustenance,
When the chest warms and a cool shock rattles the limbs
One can taste immortality.
This is far above the sensual pleasure of orgasm,
More fulfilling in a way,
Warmer
Softer
It grasps you in its temporary but immutable grip
Sustained only by thought or a touch
Or by being lost in her eyes
In her breath
In her scent
When she surpasses humanity and becomes an idea
An infection of the mind
Increasing the voltage while shortening the synaptic gap.