Work Text:
I tried to write something normal,
Something in words you might understand.
And yet, the thoughts tangled up in my mind
Like supercoiled DNA
(No, no, Cosima thinks to herself, scribbling out the lines frantically. You've gotta do better than that, Niehaus.)
I think about you--
All the things about you that give me pause.
There are so many, like
(Cosima crumples up the paper, throwing it across the room. She leans back on the couch, staring at the ceiling and hoping for some profound inspiration.)
You're a supernova in the dark,
Exploding in a dazzling display.
Breaking down and becoming something beautiful,
Becoming something new.
Life, death, rebirth, a cycle
And you're at its center.
The catalyst that persists throughout the destruction,
Changed but remade
Again and again.
(She glances down, nodding. Okay, okay, so far so good.)
You are my circadian rhythm;
Your body calls to mine.
And who am I to resist the call of my suprachiasmatic nucleus?
For when you shine brightly,
I am yours.
(She glances down, debating, Suprachiasmatic nucleus or just SCN? It so… long and unweildy, but, like, SCN doesn't make sense out of context. She opts to leave it.)
The sound of your morning-voice,
A grumble, a groan, a growl,
(Alliteration, nice.)
Resonates at the perfect frequency,
Just low enough to sink down in my bones
And make me shiver.
(Too much? She bites the tip of her pen, staring down at this her, presumably, fifteenth piece of paper. If you stop now, you'll never get anywhere. So she doesn't stop.)
It's circular motion,
Centripetal acceleration sending me rocketing towards you
While velocity keeps me at a distance
Forever going around and around in circles.
Like a planet in your orbit.
Close enough to feel your warmth
And far enough not to be consumed by all that is you.
(All that is you? She crosses that part out. She purses her lips, scratches her head. Consumed by what? Heat, sure - stars are gases and plasma that are, like, really hot. Fire maybe - star fire? That sounds… poetic, right?)
And far enough not to be consumed by starfire.
You're like a magnet,
Rearranging the polarity of every molecule in my body,
Directing charges to you,
Making them light up under MRI
Like my insides are fireworks a painting under your careful hand.
(That sounds weird… She glances down; thirty-one lines. That's a prime number. Shouldn't poems have, like, some type of structure? She gnaws on her lip. Are there even stanzas in this thing?)
What I mean to say is,
I'm not a poet,
But I'd be willing to rearrange every base pair
Of my DNA,
Rewrite every transcription,
Reverse every process,
In order for you to know
That you deserve the stars.
(She sets the paper aside and pulls out a fresh piece, copying it down again and again and again until she - for once - doesn't screw up. She takes the piles of rejected love poems from the floor and stuffs them in the bottom of the garbage can, and she returns to the final product. Thinking back to her origami obsession from the fourth grade, she carefully folds it into the shape of a little envelope. She weighs it down with a single piece of heart-shaped chocolate in the center of the coffee table and tries not to fixate. Sarah should be home any minute.)