maybe von helmholtz got
it wrong when he measured
the speed of nerve conductivity
at eighty feet per second
forever reducing that flash
of intuition or sudden flush
of cheeks to little more
than data to be collected,
collated and eventually
reduced to math. surely
such was not the case
as dearest emily with golden
pen so secretly traced
the spaces deep within
a burning heart ever
yearning for a lover’s love
to come and lay claim
to all that could remain
between two once intimately
close yet pulled apart
by time and fate and faced
across the interminable
distance as mere footsteps
down the trodden path.
