I love you,
sweet Scientist
you make me feel like a semicolon, but
your eyes are so blue
and you understand why
--you're so recessive--
I like the way your feet point outwards,
the shape of your forehead
and that polaroid you showed me of your brain.

that night I lost my coat
you covered me in bible pages
--glued them to my skin with newspaper clippings--
we lay on the rooftop of the observatory,
tethered together
you fell asleep at my side
and you had a dream about
broken satellites
that you wouldn't tell me about.

so many chemicals,
so many elements,
--so little time, darling--
you told me we were lucky
that we were born in the same laboratory
and lover, I agreed
wholeheartedly, hypocritically.

in the library, amidst the leather-bound seas
we looked for an answer
--methodically--
but the textbook said we couldn't
hold gravitation responsible.

so you became a doctor
--hands so steady--
you reached inside your ribcage
and took a biopsy of your heart
but all the purple fractals and blue
tributaries
were inconclusive.

that morning you were watching the weather channel
you knew that it would rain
we ran through the streets
--grey clouds reflected in your eyes--
and when we stopped you
started the fissure
and when I asked, Scientifically,
why why why
you looked away and said that
I was not as recessive as you.