Love is pheromones, pinpricks and bubbling liquids, like men in long coats planning perfect wars, but it’s chemical, and oh
it’s the way he smells and glistens neon-bright when the other equations were an August power outage with the stench
of fireflies (who spend themselves too briefly) and he’s an equation to her, she needs to cross out and solve and mutate her colors but
when they get sick on the acrid smell of nuclear waste it all gets balanced and it’s her finger-tips splayed over the gash of his mouth,
then the crook of his neck, and she burns out over the furrows of his spine like bombs bursting over Baghdad.