Valerie Hurtado Psychology, Honors College
When I feel smothered and swollen with this
sublime euphoric bliss, when it fills up my lungs and it seeps through my eyes. And I no longer know of any reason or rhyme than this, that, or another poem or song. And the pitter patter of all the notes and verses refresh and moisten that source of logic and I find no other recourse. Then all the words whispered by the birds of this and every other realm fill the mind with a most magnificent rhapsody, conglomerating all together minced and mingled into one. When all the voices around us wish to speak but I cannot summon the will nor manifest any reason to listen. And at last in your eyes I know this to be certain. Then colors of all hues and sources rush in a flash flight to meet my cheek. And the very heat in my chest burns like a furnace, then sinks to the pit of my stomach as the vapors of warm ether commingled with mirth slowly rise to loosen the knot in my throat. 11
Finally without any exculpating nonsense the electricity that would often shudder down my spine, make my legs quake then shoot right back up and make my hands shake ricochet about incessantly, with no object but to tickle and tease. Again my lips tremble at the thought of the thunderous utterance in its eminent roll closer and closer. Neurons all in fractions of a millisecond fire then draw... to a singular conclusion the one, the only meaning found, or should I say left in thought after meticulous calculations, indecisions, and revisions absorbing all else. As that lyrical conglomeration in my lungs, a benevolent tyrant of terrifying and awesome proportion bellows and howls awaiting its liberation, in each breath a multiplicity of the single word and notion. With the sweetest ease in the most benign state I indulge in the prisoner’s escape. And I dare transmit this delicious madness... It’s called love. I know of no other name for this sublime creature of mine. Slowly this sweet affliction ever pulsating through my heart makes its presence known to all, delicately tracing the folds of my vocal chords. And then I’d contemplate what I’ve done and say it again and again...for if it’s you that I’d love, I’d confess it and profess it emphatically still more till the end of all days. Till lips go numb and words lose taste.