Who, me ?

You say I’m too young to love. As if
I am the kind to bluff her feelings
With the wrong kind of meaning.

You say that love isn’t for me. As if
It’s my attempt at blindfolded sorcery;
And playing with a handful of lives,
Like some darts and knives.

You say I don’t know love. As if
It is something quantifiable;
Like a heap of luck or a pile of blunders,
It is just something full of wonders.

So, who are you ?
To ask me what my love means.
My love is not meant to be understood
By people other than the one who needs
To find me out and the way I feel,
The way I cry, the way I smile,
The way love is important to me,
And everything that follows, I wish, is meant to be.


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