I had a habit of falling in love with every woman I encountered.  When a waitress would ask what else she could get me, I would request salt and her hand in marriage.  For two years, I gave my mailwoman love letters, all were returned to sender.  She gave me a roll stamps with each unopened envelope.  She said no one will love a man who can’t get his declarations of affection in transit somewhere.  I apologized to her in another letter.  She did not respond.  I visited a cardiologist to question this mysterious trait, the great much too openness of my own heart.  He said, though it’s no larger than his own, it’s much louder.  Such racket comes with a want for something that moves with as much frenzy, he reasoned.  He referred me to an astronomer.  This particular man had a fascination for supernovas particularly.  With his largest telescope to my mouth, he watched this heart beat.  He said, it has this gravity that pulls for everything with a light like its own.  It’s growing, still.  He sent me to a composer.  This man put a phonograph to my ear and a needle on my chest.  He said, this song is all drum circle, this song cracks and echoes.  Someone will dance, it needs dancers.  The three men corresponded with one another in handwritten letters.  The cardiologist wondered if I’d go deaf, the astronomer if I’d explode, the composer if the pace would exhaust me to death.  I continued to receive stamps and tip with proposals.  I grew louder and brighter and faster.  At night, all this movement would sometimes be so great, I would float above the surface of my bed.  The men were scared, but all fascinated.  All scientists in some way or another.  All lovers.  All men who still marvel at the heart.  They began to test their own, to question them.  They directed me to a top physicist.  She admitted she was puzzled, but never left me.  I had grown into a new man then, some strange beautiful thing.  We married soon after.  We were the first sun of summer, so loud, so bright, so big, giving life to everything we shared.