love taps her walking stick to the walls of my heart,

keeping in time to the blood-rushing heat of my cheeks.

she knows what she wants,

and she doesn’t care who screams at her.

love stumbles when she wants to help,

and brightens with delight when she does.

like when his fingers brush mine,

or her lips are just the right shade of red.

love is deaf to shouts and cries,

no matter whose they are.

she only listens to the thrum under my skin,

alight with butterflies and blushes.

love is unreliable,

she’s broken-hearted,

and she’s fickle.

but above all,

love is blind and unrefined.

and she knows exactly what she wants.