Oxytocin, someday, again.

"It's the dopamine,"

she said. 

And she was right, but more than that—

the shock of seeing his thoughts, reflected. 

Somewhere, behind her eyes,

an inner life that seemed 

familiar. 

That terrified. 

He missed having an other. 

Her smell, her touch—

The electric avenues,

the swelling horns

that seemed to rise

and fall,

with her presence. 

And her radio silence,

since...

The dopamine. 

The dope, I mean. 

The edge of it all,

But—

If was softer, before. 

Softened. 

Immediate.

A dream, or a lie. 

It was a certainty,

made untrue. 

And the question became,

The question became,

The question was—

Could this body possibly be,

       his body?

Could this grow,

and shape, and change?

Or burn up,

or slow fade?

Tear away, 

and break apart. 

This body, your body. 

Our body. 

The impossibility of it all. 

Remembering and forgetting.

Erasing to find. 

Collapse, to rise. 

This mind, your mind.

Our mind.