Monica, unremembered

I feel that awkward energy that, if it eminates from within me, comes from somewhere dormant like a volcano gone bright, kinetic and ready to mutate the landscape. It's in your eyes and your shape and maybe somewhere down deeper, where blood runs like land in its youth, unseen, expanding, at war with itself. Why else would reciting your name open such secrets? Why do I forget everything that made up my world? What is this image that I perceive but no longer exists after words are spoken and ideas exchanged?