Mostly Manic Mondays on the brain in love:
I am tangled in hotel sheets with your scent fresh upon my body writing a love letter in my head as you finish dressing. My letter will begin by telling you of a recent study on how a brain hooked on love functions, or in some cases, doesn’t.
I read an article in the paper today about the brain hooked on love.
It stood me still. At last there is a name for my illness.
Lover of mine I read the article with haste. I devoured each word. At first, one by one, then two at a time, until my eyes gobbled the sentences whole. My fists tightened as I neared the end of the article. I howled as my eyes slowed to read and then read again, the last paragraph. Imagine my disappointment to learn there was no known cure, no studies at the Mayo Clinic, or clinical trials to volunteer for. It was early days in the study.
You will read my letter as you do all of them, smile knowingly, and whisper under your breath, absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence, my dear.
Lover, this is one of many letters to written you regarding the state of my heart. Mine is a cursed heart hooked on love. You are the first person I shared my inside thoughts with, the first person to see the world through my eyes, and the first to hear my tears fall. You were the first to love me hard. In my letters I have declared my unfaltering passionate love for you.
Do you love me, I wonder.
Over the years I’ve penned hundreds of missives. They were written upon our bodies with a bare heart—mine to yours—with such savage passion they should not be reread by one with a brain hooked on love. Yet… I will. I will do anything to cure my cursed heart.
Where do you store my love letters I wonder?
Lover, you know it’s not your honey kisses, your strong arms, or even that lanky body of yours that sends me to Coventry seeking asylum. There are no logical reasons that explain why I stay, or why we love as do. Eleven years ago, I told you of my burning desire to kiss you, a mere slip of an inside never to be shared thought, and here we are tangled in sheets of passion–still.
Do you continue to tremble from my touch as I do by yours?
Lover, rereading the letters I wrote to you made my skin tingle, little tremors exploded throughout my body reminding me of our first kiss, holding hands, and how well our hands fit together, glove over hand, second skin, and knowing your hands belonged on my body. It was that sort of fit. We were waiting for that moment. Yet we were terrified by the violent reaction. As I read the letters my skin grew hot, smoldering, and eventually my humiliation burned the skin right off my bones. My soul howled “HOW COULD YOU?”
Perhaps someone stole identity and wrote those letters using my voice, my font, and my email address. Surely I would never expose my heart and share such explicit sentiments, which for purposes of self-preservation should’ve remained tethered at the bottom of my soul.
After all the turbulent years we show no signs of settling into companionate love. You continue to leave me undone, and breathing into a paper bag. Mine is a cursed heart. I want out. I want to feel the ground beneath my feet when I walk. Love is for the strong, and hearty. I want to live vicariously through the heroines of Harlequin novels so popular decade upon decade.
Our story would rival the best of the best the novelists of the day could ever hope to write.
Our union is big, but nonsensical. You tell me all the time that there are unexplained moments in a life; some are not measurable or definable. You will want me to remember that on rare instances when words cannot be found for an occasion, acceptance is readily available if your choose it. You will want me to conclude that the forces of attraction are in many ways mysterious.
Such is my love for you–puzzling.
Later, after we have made love, you will ask me if re-reading the love letters I wrote helped me with my cursed heart. NO! Reading old love letters is not for the faint of heart. I am leaving the letters in the back of the closet for the children to find.
Lover, mine is a cursed heart.
You will smile and remind me that we are all cursed by something.
Lover, I am yours until there is a cure for the cursed heart and a brain hooked on love.
How long are you mine, I wonder.
It is the brain or the heart falling in love?
On a serious note, have a look at what falling in love really does to the brain.