Love is a delusion, a chemical delusion.
The chemical delusion of his soaps, hers…
Of buying milk that ran out too quick because we made too many cakes… Butter, too.
Of laughing together after we fall, and pick ourselves up.
Of holding hands.
Of arguing and fighting, of my tears, of yours as we kiss and embrace and make up.
Of dancing together and singing karaoke for the fifteenth time. (Of the neighbours’ diminishing estimation of us.)
I suppose it doesn’t matter if it’s a chemical delusion or not. Because if it is, then it is as hallucinatory as the joy brought to me by green leaves of summer, as the heat on my face in the sun.
Pity the dead, who cannot dream as we do.