The first day I met you,

my love,

the leaves were starting to turn red.

You came to me from the mouth of a man

with glasses and a British accent.

You were a word.

"Chemistry."

From your beautiful face:

a perfectly curved 'C' cheek,

a trim 'm' middle, 

and a reach for the stars followed by a trailing root;

to your personality of explosive reactions

and slow-moving science.

I love everything about you.

 

Yet fate wants to seperate us.

Conniving teachers with monotone voices,

classmates who do not share our passion;

they try to extinguish our bunsen-burner hot love.

I do the best I can to keep the magic alive,

but I seem to be running out of reactants

and the combustion is incomplete.

 

Oh, chemistry.

As I slip into my grade 12 year

the flame has dimmed from sky-blue

to a flickering orange.  

The leaves are red yet again.

But a new voice has brought you to life,

and you again fall from my tongue with glee.

"Chemistry."

The product of burnt fingertips,

broken graphite,

and strained eyes.

Your flame flares to white-hot

with the coming winter snow.