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They call it falling
in love because it feels
like the mad rush
of wind whipping hair
behind the head,
the gush of air
that fills the nostrils
and mouth as one
falls head over heels
from above,
or in love.

The tummy becomes home
to one thousand singing
fireflies, blinking hot
and bright in the dark
of the abdomen;
their tiny wings fluttering
just underneath the skin
tingling
mingling

singling out every nerve
ending, every fiber
of every follicle
until, breathless
a smile rises to our lips
satisfied.

The heart pounds
into the rib cage
because what else
can it do? In love,
the heart knows
that the body
must go on living
for a thousand more
years to dull the ache
of being separated
from him/her/zer, the object
of our love.

The blood rushes,
(tunnels, more likely)
through veins at a maddening
pace, racing to the cheeks,
lips, breast, and -
you know the rest -
like a pot boiling
over, it fills the skin
with heat that rises
off the body in rippling
waves, and constantly
misbehaves.

They call it falling because
every fiber, every pulse, every
chord, every sound, every
thought, every moment, every
blood cell, every blink, every
thing/one/where
is so devoted to the pure
and constant recollection of love
that, the muscles forget
how they work
and, knees weak, we fall
down, in love.
And we fall
forever.

Learn more about this author, Araminta Matthews.
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