Potential energy
is stored energy.

Energy waiting
for the right conditions.

A boulder
at the top of a hill.

A spring
compressed.

The composed text
sitting in my drafts.

Waiting for me
to hit send.

The energy contained
within that bubble

could power
a midsized city.

Limerence is baffling.

Like a hydroelectric dam
built across
a seasonal creek.

Every delayed text
powers a refrigerator.

Every glance
generates enough electricity
to illuminate
Madison Square Garden.

I wake up
with the productivity
of a trading floor.

I have cleaned my apartment.
Written three poems.
Done two loads of laundry.
Researched Mediterranean airfare.
Started learning Greek.

None of this
has brought me
any closer
to the person.

The energy
cannot find
its intended outlet.

It spills
into neighboring systems.

This may explain at least
half of human achievement.

Liszt composes
“Liebestraum No. 3.”

Barrett Browning’s
Sonnets from the Portuguese.

Someone else
checks socials
forty-seven times
before lunch.

The trick of limerence
is that you think
you are building
something
with another person.

Really
you are learning
how much electricity
can be generated
from a single spark
within.

Eventually
the façade fades.

The dam opens.
The reservoir drains.
The river returns
to its ordinary course.

And yet
I remain enamoured.

Not with the person.

Not with my art,
my work,
my productivity.

With the potential
energy of a heart
I know
is pumping and bleeding
and living and dying.